


The Finch and the Mockingbird

by Emachinescat



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Revenge, Shawn Whump, Suspense, To Kill A Mockingbird - Freeform, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry's past comes back to haunt him in the worst of ways when a psychopath bent on revenge goes after his son in a deadly game inspired by the dark themes of revenge in Harper Lee's 'To Kill a Mockingbird.' Now father and son must fight for their lives and for each other, because this guy is determined to kill a mockingbird: a snarky, faux-psychic mockingbird named Shawn Spencer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tweety's Had a Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Original Publication date: February 2014.  
> Original Completion date: In-Progress
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own "Psych," "To Kill a Mockingbird," or "The Hunger Games."
> 
> This takes place in season four, after You Can't Handle This Episode but before Mr. Yin Presents, and there will be a few spoilers for Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark and You Can't Handle This Episode.
> 
> You do NOT have to have read To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee in order to understand it. Shawn's never read it, and he figured everything out just fine (not really; he had to go through a heck of a lotta whump in order to figure it out...). Everything you need to know about the book will be told in the story, but I urge you, if you haven't read this classic, do so - it is well worth the read! I for one adore the book, and I couldn't help but come up with the idea of a crazy, revenge-seeking scholar trying to mirror the idea of killing a mockingbird by going after the child of his enemy, just like what happens in the novel.
> 
> As for the date in the 'young Shawn' part, I've given up trying to figure it out. I thought I had the math down, but then 'Cloudy with a Chance of Improvement' aired, and apparently Shawn was a baby in 1981, and I had figured that he'd be maybe six or seven around that time, so... whatever. I don't even know if the writers know how old young Shawn is at this point... though we rarely get to see him anymore. :(
> 
> Please read, review, and enjoy! :)

_~1983~_

"Dad, Gus's dad said he'd take us to the arcade—"

Eight-year-old Shawn Spencer froze at the kitchen's threshold, stopped short from his question at the sight of his father, decked out in his best suit and tie, hunched over at the table. His head was in his hands, and he didn't so much as look up when his son entered the room, the request – actually, it was more of a demand – for his father to let him go hang out with Gus without finishing his homework first dying quickly on Shawn's tongue.

"Dad?"

This time, Henry looked up, and there was a look in his eyes that his young son couldn't quite place.

"Shawn. What do you want?"

Shawn blinked. "Uh…" Curiosity – not to mention the unsettling feeling at seeing his dad looking so vulnerable – got the best of him, and he abandoned his previous mission for the time being. "What's wrong, Dad?"

Henry shook his head. "Nothing you need to worry about, son."

Shawn furrowed his brow. "I can handle it," he insisted stubbornly, crossing his scrawny arms across his chest. "I'm not seven anymore." Henry snorted, but that was the only indication of amusement, and the half-laugh didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. Shawn took this as an invitation to sit down across from his dad and pry for more information, which was probably not what Henry had in mind, but Shawn was a stubborn kid and really didn't care. "So… is it a case?"

Henry sighed heavily, the weight of his problems seeming to make even the air around them heavy. "In a way," he said vaguely.

Shawn took a closer look at his father, the way he was dressed - that was a freshly pressed suit, and one of his best, and the tie he was wearing was the one that he only wore when he was testifying in court. "Oh," Shawn said. "A trial? Did the guy get out of his sentence or something?"

Henry shook his head wearily. "No, Shawn, the problem this time was that he  _didn't_."

Shawn was thoroughly confused at this point. "So you  _wanted_  the bad guy to walk?"

"In this case, I don't believe that he was the 'bad guy,'" Henry responded shortly. "The evidence was circumstantial, the guy's lawyer was crap, the prosecuting lawyer was  _full_ of crap, but he sure knew how to work the court to his advantage."

"How do you know he was innocent?"

"I don't  _know_ , Shawn, because the other suspect – Herman O'Dell, who we believe actually did it – is ridiculously rich and powerful, has no real evidence against them, and the defense's lead witness is conveniently dead. But I – not to mention, over half of the guys at the station – feel that the evidence isn't nearly enough to condemn a man to 35 years, parole in 25. But the fact of the matter was that what evidence we had  _was_  enough, especially coupled with my testimony—"

"If you thought he didn't do it, why did you testify against him?"

"I didn't," Henry snapped, eyes hard. "I told the truth, and the truth was that I was  _not_  lead on this case, barely involved with the damn thing at all, but I turned out to be a key witness anyway because of something I saw on patrol connected to the accused – never mind, I'm not going into that, so don't ask, Shawn – and the questioning on the prosecutor's side was as sleazy and manipulative as they come. Even though I did nothing but state the facts objectively, he was able to twist them to his advantage, and the defendant wasn't able to regain any ground on the matter. And so a man's going to jail for something that I firmly believe he didn't do, and I had a major role in putting him there."

Shawn was quiet for all of fifteen seconds – quite the record for him, actually – before asking, "Why didn't you just not say anything to incriminate him?"

"I was under oath, Shawn, and that would be lying."

"But if that guy's innocent, then it's not fair—"

"Doesn't matter," Henry said flatly. "Because the justice system has solved a bunch of problems, kid, but it's not perfect, by a long shot. And sometimes, the good guy goes to jail, and no matter how much you hate it, and no matter how unfair it is, sometimes even the best of the best can't get him out. But we have to stick with the system, because, nine times out of ten, the system works."

"But the other time, somebody's life is ruined," Shawn muttered, glaring at the tabletop. "It's not fair."

Henry reached across the table and gently grasped his son's arm. "Now do you understand why I'm frustrated, Shawn?"

Shawn nodded solemnly.

"All right, enough trial talk. Go do your homework."

Shawn studied his father for a long moment, trying to gauge how difficult it would be to finagle more information out of him and then sighed at the hard look in Henry's eyes, knowing he was beaten before he even began. "'Kay," he muttered, then added, "Can I—?

"No arcade until you finish your homework. And if I find out it's Gus's homework, and not yours, no arcade until you graduate the police academy. Understood?"

Shawn scowled. "Yes, sir," he muttered, but he didn't argue as much as he normally would, because his father still had that unnameable, haunted look on his face, and he didn't want to push it. Heart considerably heavier than it had been before he'd come to talk to his dad, Shawn trudged upstairs to get rid of the evidence of Gus's science report before his dad came up to check up on him.

* * *

_~Present Day~_

Waking up to a call from his father at 6:30 in the morning was not Shawn Spencer's idea of a great way to start his Saturday. In fact, he'd go so far as to say that it was the  _worst_  wake-up in the history of wake-ups, including the time that he'd woken up, dazed, confused and in pain in the middle of the woods after having been shot and chased by a crazy ice-cream truck murderer.

Shawn would have just ignored the call and gone straight back to sleep, but upon being woken up, he realized that he really had to pee anyway, so he might as well make sure his dad hadn't fallen and broken his hip or something just as ridiculously  _old_.

He should have just gone to the bathroom and ignored the call, but his brain was still fuzzy from sleep, so he answered.

"If you're not lying in the floor with a broken bone, I'm going to be ticked," Shawn declared in place of the custom "hello, how are you" associated with most phone calls.

There was only a second or two of semi-stunned silence (this was Shawn, after all) before Henry responded with a snort of derision, "Well, good morning to you, too, Sunshine."

Shawn groaned. "Can you make this quick, Dad? It's 6:30. You know I don't even think about being awake on a Saturday until well after noon."

"Sorry to disturb your much-needed beauty sleep, Princess," Henry said waspishly.

Shawn decided to make matters worse by admonishing, "There's no point in apologizing if you don't sound like you mean it."

"Oh, for the love of—" Henry snapped, luring a small triumphant grin out of his sleep-muddled son. "I think there's a cat around my house, and I need you to catch it."

Shawn blinked. He hadn't been expecting that. "I'm not animal control, Dad. I'm a psychic."

"You're not a psychic."

"Details. Why are you calling me at this time to tell me you have a stray cat, and why do you think I'd drive all the way over to your house just to catch it this early in the morning? Or any time of the morning, really?"

"Because you owe me one from that last case. And the case before that, and the case before that – and so on." Shawn huffed belligerently and loudly into the phone, but his dad ignored him as usual and plowed on. "Walked out of the house this morning and found a dead bird right in front of my door, Shawn. Some stray must've caught it in the middle of the night and – Lord knows why – decided to leave it on the welcome mat. I had to clean the damn thing up, but its diseases are probably still all over my porch—"

"Diseases? Dad, you're as paranoid as Lassie-face when it comes to lime disease. I think the big question here is if you gave poor Tweety a proper funeral?"

"Dumped it in the trash and scrubbed down the porch with cleaner," Henry retorted. "And if I find any more surprises, I'll go looking for that cat myself, so I expect you to get down here ASAP and find it yourself."

Shawn grimaced. He didn't like the idea of his father chasing some poor tabby around the yard, waving a gun at it and telling it to cease and desist or it would be brought in for questioning – or worse – and he heaved yet another dramatic sigh into his father's ear. "Fine. I'll come arrest Sylvester for you. But in his defense, I don't think he cracked and murdered Tweety. He was framed, probably by the duck—"

_Click._

"Well goodbye to you too, Sunshine," Shawn mocked into the disconnected phone, echoing his father's words from earlier. Since his dad had already hung up, though, it was a hollow victory, so he tossed his phone onto his mattress, yawned loudly, and shuffled off to the bathroom, irritated that he had been woken up so freaking early to go on a cat-hunt, and the only consolation was that maybe the imaginary Mrs. Pickles would soon have a real, furry, feline friend.

* * *

Shawn arrived at his dad's house forty-five minutes later. He'd managed to borrow a live trap from the local animal shelter (he'd borrowed cat toys before – long story – and hadn't returned them, so he'd given them Gus's watch that he had forgotten at Shawn's apartment yesterday as insurance). Needless to say, Gus didn't know about this. He'd also run by the Walmart and grabbed a couple of cans of Fancy Feast. He and Gus had started a "Save the Strays" cat-catching service when they were thirteen, and he'd learned a lot from the experience that lasted a grand total of three days. It had ended tragically with Shawn in the emergency room with twelve stitches and a concussion (when the cat had scratched him, he'd fallen back and hit his head on a rock), but Shawn had discovered that the best policy to catch a cat was to let the cat come to you, and not the chase-n-jump approach.

His dad was on the porch when he parked his motorcycle in the drive. As he pulled off his helmet, Shawn called out, "I hope you don't plan to sit there and sip lemonade while I do all the work."

"No, of course not," Henry said.

Not trusting this suddenly generous manifestation of his father, Shawn narrowed his eyes. "Really?"

"Nope. I'm going to have a beer."

"Oh, ho, ho, funny," Shawn said sarcastically, unloading the cage and cat food from the back of his bike. "Isn't it a little early for a beer, Dad?"

"Isn't it a little early to be back-talking the guy that helps you with your cases?"

Shawn made a face but was too tired to argue. "Okay, I'll find your poor, framed puddy-tat."

"Cats catch birds, Shawn. This one just did what was in its nature."

"Yet you condemn him for following his instincts," Shawn admonished, setting up the live trap near the base of the porch, right next to the stairs.

"No, for leaving the product of his instincts on my front porch," Henry shot back, but Shawn was already up the stairs and barreling into the house, cat food in tow.

"I'm using your microwave!" he announced, letting the door flop shut behind him. "Stupid Sylvester," he grumbled as he dug through his father's cabinets for an old bowl, finally surfacing with a small, chipped red one that looked like it had seen better days. He poured the cat food into the bowl, popped the bowl in the microwave, and less than two minutes later, the cat food was in the trap, the meaty scent stretching across the yard.

Shawn dusted off his hands and plopped into the chair opposite his dad's. "Okay, kitty cat's good as caught."

Henry raised his eyebrows. "That's it? You're just going to set the trap and call it quits? After all that fuss…" He shook his head, obviously used to Shawn making a big fuss over little things.

"That's why it's called a trap, Dad. It  _traps_  the animal so that you don't have to catch it yourself. Trust me, by the end of the day, your whiskered friend will be the newest resident of Hotel de Trap, and you can –" Henry shot him a dark look, "—I mean, I can take him to the shelter tomorrow morning. Easy. Now, what's for breakfast?"

"You think I'm going to feed you, kid?" Henry chuckled.

Shawn grinned cheekily. "You usually do. And I think I smell sausage."

"That's the cat food, Shawn," Henry said in a flat tone, shaking his head in exasperation. "And I ate breakfast before I called you. But I have some leftover bacon and eggs. I guess I can spare'em."

Shawn smirked at his dad's retreating back, knowing that he was secretly pleased to have some company for breakfast.

* * *

Halfway through his breakfast, Shawn got a call from Gus, asking him to come to the Psych office.

"C'mon, Shawn, Gus can wait a few more minutes," Henry griped. "I didn't cook all this up so you could waste it."

"I don't think you cooked it for  _me_ , Dad, but I can attest that you _did_  put it in the microwave and push a couple of buttons for me. And as flattering as that is, Gus sounded a bit freaked out. I'm going to make sure he's okay."

"Check that trap before you go, at least," Henry called as Shawn waved and headed out the door, moaning about the pressures of successful cat-napping or some such nonsense. He rolled his eyes almost affectionately as he set about clearing the table. His son was an idiot.

* * *

The cat wasn't in the trap, but there were a few very excited flies buzzing around the bowl of cat chow. Shawn decided that Sylvester was probably busy trying to clear his name, so he'd let his dad call him when the cat was in the trap, and then he'd worry about getting it to the shelter later. Or maybe he'd take it to Buzz. Nabby would probably love another cat.

* * *

Gus was standing outside of the office, well away from the door and in front of the window when Shawn pulled his motorcycle up to the office. Gus had a disturbed look on his face, similar to the one he got when he came too close to a dead body.

"Gus, don't be two crayons short of a Crayola 24-pack," Shawn ordered as he dismounted his bike, took off his helmet, ran a hand through his hair, and walked up to his best friend. "You look like you've seen a cadaver."

"I have," Gus said, his voice weak. He looked ready to throw up.

Shawn's eyes grew wide. "Gus! Buddy! Do we have a case you haven't told me about?" He gasped. "Or did you finally snap and kill somebody?"

"I'm not doing this with you right now, Shawn. There's been a brutal murder right in front of our office."

Shawn spun around, sure he would have noticed a dead person sprawled across the sidewalk in front of the office. "There's no one there, Gus. Dead or alive."

"Look closer," Gus all but whimpered. "He's a little guy, but he's there. Everyone's been skirting around him since I got here."

"So… the black-hearted pedestrians are walking around an invisible murdered midget?" Shawn tried to clarify. Gus glared.

Shawn looked at the ground, and that's when he saw the feather. There were feathers all up and down the boardwalks and sidewalks in Santa Barbara, because there were a lot of birds flying around, so Shawn wouldn't have thought anything of it had the cat fiasco with his father not happened this morning. Without thinking, Shawn brought a hand to his head and said, "I'm sensing that Tweety wasn't fast enough to get away from Jerry this time."

He knew his cartoons (obviously, since he'd been referencing Sylvester and Tweety all morning to his father), but it was always fun to get a rise out of Gus. "First of all, Shawn, I know you're not psychic." He ignored Shawn's frantic shushing, because there was no one close enough to hear their conversation, and anyway, Shawn was just being annoying now, and Gus didn't feel like putting up with him. "Secondly, it would be Tweety and Sylvester, and furthermore, Tom is the cat and Jerry is the mouse." His glare intensified a couple of mega-watts. "And you know that just as well as I do, Shawn."

"C'mon, son," Shawn teased, smacking Gus on the chest. He moved closer to the door, squatting down when he saw the small bird less than a foot away from Psych's front door. He hadn't seen it before because Gus had been in the way. It was a brownish-gray little guy, small enough to easily fit into Shawn's hand. Its wings were darker than its body. Its feathers were ruffled, but otherwise it could be sleeping, except Shawn didn't think that birds just lay down on the ground when they slept with their little black webbed feet sticking up in the air. A pang of sympathy overtook Shawn. As much as he joked, he loved animals and hated seeing them dead. He still hadn't quite come to terms with his pet lizard's death when he was a kid.

Shawn reached out to turn the little guy over, but Gus grabbed his shoulder, finally venturing closer to the tiny carcass. "No, Shawn," said Gus. "You'll get bird flu, and I am  _not_  sitting by your contagious bedside while you waste away from disease."

"You and my dad, honestly," Shawn griped, but he dug his pocketknife out of his pocket anyway and flicked it open, using the flat of the blade to flip the bird onto its belly. There were no signs that the bird had been mutilated in any way, or carried around by a cat or attacked by anything, so it could have died from natural causes. But right on their doorstep? Right after his father had found a dead bird on his porch? And the feathers were fluffed oddly, many going in the opposite direction, like the bird had been held by something bigger than itself, but not in a mouth, but by something with opposable thumbs… King Kong, maybe? But human made a bit more sense, so he didn't mention his far-fetched theory to Gus just yet… namely because he didn't want Gus to wet his pants.

"Hey, what kind of bird is this, anyway?"

"Mockingbird," Gus answered without a beat.

"Don't be ridiculous, Gus. You know mockingbirds aren't real."

"Shawn," said Gus irritably. "What are you talking about? Of course mockingbirds are real!"

"Everyone knows that mockingbirds are mythical creatures from _The Hunger Games_ , Gus."

"You're thinking of mocking _jays_. Mocking _birds_  are the state birds of Tennessee, Texas and Florida."

"Then what are they doing in Santa Barbara?"

"You are an idiot, Shawn."

"Hmph. Regardless, I've heard it both ways," Shawn declared petulantly.

"What? The mockingbirds or that you're an idiot? Because I can assure you that there are no two ways about that last one."

"My, my, you're a cynical little sidekick today," Shawn observed, and before Gus could protest that he was  _nobody's_  sidekick, Shawn got to his feet and said ominously, "I bet there wasn't actually a puddy-tat leaving presents for my dad this morning after all."

"What the heck are you talking about, Shawn?"

Shawn unlocked the Psych door, taking care to avoid the bird on the sidewalk. As Gus ineffectively tried to suppress a high-pitched whine at the back of his throat, Shawn said, "I'll explain later, buddy. I'm going to call Woody and ask him to pick up our poor little feathered friend here."

"You're going to ask the coroner to come get a bird that wandered in front of the office and died?"

"Dude, you know I don't handle it well when cute, fluffy, potentially disease-ridden animals die. And you obviously aren't going to get it. Besides, I need to find out how it died, what killed it. I've got a feeling that something more is going on here than what we're seeing."

"You're being unusually cryptic this morning," Gus said slowly, eyeing his best friend with slight suspicion.

Shawn gasped and halted from dialing Woody's number. "What did you call me?" he needled his friend, "You take that back!"

Gus didn't respond, only shook his head and stalked into the kitchen area to find some snacks as Shawn finished dialing. A few seconds later, Gus could hear Shawn from the kitchen, talking to the coroner. "Woody! Hey, I've got a teeny favor to ask you . . . No, Woody, it doesn't involve skinny dipping . . . or mayonnaise."

 


	2. Murder in the Twitter Feed

Henry was pulling weeds out of the garden when he heard his phone ringing from inside the house. He grunted, bones creaking as he rose from his knees and headed into the house to answer it. According to the caller ID, it was his son.

"What is it, Shawn?"

"Miss you too, Papa Monkey," came his son's sarcastic response from the other end. His tone took a slightly more serious tone. "What kind of bird did Sylvester leave on your doorstep?"

"What? Why?"

"I just need to know, okay, Dad?"

"I don't know, Shawn," Henry grumbled, even though he did. "It was a dead bird."

"Please, Dad. I know you go bird-watching every Sunday morning with a group of geezers at the park."

"What? Have you been following me?"

"Um,  _no_ ," Shawn shot back instantly. "It's obvious. You keep a pair of binoculars on your coat hook, but whenever I've stopped by on Sunday evenings, they're sitting on the dash of your truck. That, combined with the _Birds of the California Coast_  book on your coffee table, makes a pretty convincing argument. And you aren't one to go on such an exciting outing alone; you'll have a group of equally old and boring buddies to share in your little hobby. And trust me, I have  _much_  better things to do with my Sunday mornings than follow you around, namely watching the backs of my eyelids." Henry rolled his eyes, because although Shawn was dead-on with his observations and deductive reasoning, he had reached the irritation exacto early this morning. "So stop being so difficult and just tell me if it was a mockingbird or not." _  
_

Henry blinked. How Shawn had figured that out, he didn't know, but he was right: It had been a mockingbird. "How did you know?"

"I'm psychic, remember?" Before Henry could refute the absurd statement, Shawn added, "Thanks, Dad."

"What's going on?" There was something in his son's voice that made Henry uneasy, or maybe it was his cop instincts that were telling him that something wasn't quite right. "Are you on a case?"

"Actually, no. Just wanting to know what size coffin I'll need to get for the bird. I'll have a mockingbird-sized casket on its way ASAP."

"Shawn—"

Shawn hung up.

Henry glared at his phone for a long moment as if he could somehow transmit his irritation through the disconnected phone call, and then he put the phone away and went back outside to the garden, pushing the niggling feeling of unease out of his mind, telling himself it was just one little bird and that Shawn was simply being... well, Shawn.

* * *

Shawn hung up his phone and returned it to his pocket, suspicions confirmed. He turned to where the dead mockingbird lay, this one slightly smaller than the one that had been in front of the Psych office. Upon arriving at his place – the old Mimi's Fluff-n-Fold – after leaving Gus at the office to wait for Woody (Gus steadfastly refused to set foot outside the office until Tweety the Second had been picked up), he'd been hit with a serious sense of déjà vu when he'd spotted yet another lifeless bird lying on the sidewalk in front of the old dry cleaner's.

That had more than affirmed that he was right and something was going on here, and a quick but exasperating call to his dad had made him positive that it was for some reason centered around these mysterious murdered mockingbirds. Someone was killing these cute little guys and leaving them at places connected to Shawn.

But were they a threat? A message? Some kind of a sick prank? He wasn't sure, but he was going to find out. He hadn't mentioned any of this to his dad, and he hadn't explained it to Gus yet, either. Whatever was going on, it seemed that Shawn himself was the common factor.  _His_  dry cleaner's-turned-apartment.  _His_  dad's house.  _His_ psychic detective agency.

He remembered how his father and best friend had worried when Shawn had been threatened by Yang last year, and even though this could be nothing but a cruel prank, he didn't feel like having to deal with their concern about his safety if they thought he was being threatened. He'd look into it a bit on his own first, and then if he thought it was necessary, he'd get the Worry Squad involved.

His phone rang again, and he rolled his eyes, sure that it was his dad calling back to demand an explanation. "Dad, I told you—"

"Mr. Spencer, this is Chief Vick."

"Oh," said Shawn, telling himself that he really needed to check who was calling before he answered his phone. "What's going on, Karen?" There was silence, but Shawn could almost feel the chief's glare through his iPhone. He cleared his throat, properly chastised. "Chief Vick," he amended. Surely his father hadn't called her on this bird thing! Even  _he_  wasn't  _that_  paranoid and controlling, was he? Then again...

"Mr. Spencer," the chief repeated. "I have a case you might be interested in. I've put my detectives on it, of course, but they've got a lot on their plates right now wrapping a few other cases up as well, and I think we could use some additional help with this one."

"Oh, Chief, I thought you'd never ask!" Shawn simpered melodramatically. "What kind of case are we talking about here? Diamond smuggling? Murder? Espionage? Suit? Brief?" He grinned widely at his own joke, envisioning the chief doing the same at her desk at the station, but only exasperation was in her voice when she responded.

"We have a body. It seems like a pretty straight-forward case, but we'd like to wrap this up as soon as possible."

Curious and eager for another case, Shawn told her he'd be there within the hour. After digging around in his sock drawer, he found a pair of old socks, but them on his hands, braced himself for what he was about to do, and then used his sock-covered hands to pick up the bird, quickly placing it in a plastic baggie so that he could take it down to the station with him. He threw the socks into the trash can and grabbed his cell phone from where he'd laid it down on his dresser after talking to the chief. He was planning to call Gus to come pick him up as soon as Woody picked up the bird so that they could ride to the station in the Blueberry together.

As he hit speed dial and waited for Gus to answer, he solemnly addressed the dead bird in the plastic bag,"Okay, Tweety the Third. I'll go to the station, find out what the chief has for us, and then I promise that I will find your real killer and clear Sylvester's name. You have my word, little buddy."

* * *

His name was Carter Johnson, he was a wildlife conservationist and avid birdwatcher, and he had been stabbed four times and dumped in the woods a few miles from his home, only to be found by a couple of traumatized hikers earlier this morning. Woody had estimated the time of death to be about 4 p.m. yesterday evening.

Chief Vick had explained all of this in her office upon the consultants' arrival. Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara were present as well, and Lassie had a smug look on his Lassie-face.

"See, Spencer," he said, "this is what happens when you rely on good, solid police work and not crystal balls and spirits!"

Shawn furrowed his brow in mock confusion. "What happens? People get murdered violently? This dude is dead. I'm confused; how is that good?"

Lassiter fumed, and Shawn quite enjoyed the sight. "No," the detective ground out, " _results_  happen. While you and Guster were taking your sweet time getting to the station, Detective O'Hara and I did  _real_  investigative work and found out more about the victim than all of your flailing around and idiocy would have."

"Oh, good," said Shawn. "So you know who killed him?" Lassiter spluttered indignantly. Shawn smirked. "That's what I thought. Lassie, you're going to have to do better than that if you want to beat me at my own game."

Gus elbowed Shawn in the side as Juliet rolled her eyes. The chief admonished, "This is not a  _game_ , Mr. Spencer, even if you have a habit of treating every case you consult on like it is one. May I remind you that a man is dead?"

"You may," Shawn allowed graciously, "but I can't promise I'll retain the information. I'll try my best though. For you." Now the chief was rolling  _her_  eyes.

"My detectives have been working diligently all morning, and they have managed to track down Mr. Johnson's next-of-kin, place of employment, and an impressive amount of information about him and his current lifestyle that could very well prove vital to the outcome of this case."

Shawn grinned widely. "In that case, congrats! This thing'll be solved by dinner!" he applauded, winking at Juliet, who just smiled slightly and looked uncomfortable. Once upon a time, she would have acted exasperated or would have teased him back, but since Shawn had started seeing Abigail, things had remained a bit awkward between Juliet and him, even though they had resolved not to let that happen.

Granted, Shawn probably shouldn't have been faux-flirting with Jules, but Abigail had been Uganda for two months now, she and Shawn rarely spoke anymore, not to mention she'd left their relationship status kind of ambiguous upon leaving the country. Sometimes he felt like he wasn't even in a relationship anymore, long-distance or otherwise, and he sorely missed the back-and-forth that he and Juliet had so easily taken part in before he and Abigail had gotten together.

Even though Juliet looked a little put-off by Shawn's silliness, he continued with his course of action, knowing that an opportunity to goad Lassiter – again – would be right around the corner. "Want to hug it out?"

Juliet shook her head slightly, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her lips, but she just walked out of the chief's office with a long-suffering expression on her face. Shawn turned to Lassiter with his arms outstretched in what he thought was a very warm, inviting manner. "Lassie," he said. "You look like you need a hug."

"I would rather make love with a cactus."

"Ouch," Shawn remarked, referring to both the painful implications of that alternative and the harsh dismissal. Lassiter followed his partner out of the room and Shawn turned to his best friend. "Gus? ... Gus, come back! Where are you going? You know I can't handle rejection! Gus?" He turned around to face Chief Vick, conceding that Gus was long gone. "What about you, Chief? Hug it out?"

Chief Vick managed to mostly smother her exasperated smile, but not quite. " _Out_ , Mr. Spencer."

Shawn pouted, slowly lowering his arms, and slumped out of the room after the detectives and Gus.

* * *

Shawn studied the partially covered form of Carter Johnson lying on the table in the morgue. The deceased was on his back, and two of his stab wounds were visible from the front. He'd been stabbed two more times in the back. There were slight traces of bruising on his jaw and neck. There were also some scars on his forearms, more of indentations, really, small dots of what looked like claw marks... like something with talons had repeatedly dug its claws into his skin.

Shawn raised a hand to his head. "I'm sensing that this man did not only  _watch_  birds, but he interacted with them on a regular basis."

Juliet blinked, somehow managing to be adorably surprised whenever Shawn had a "vision," even after all these years. "That's right. He did bird shows for the local aviary for years."

"Small birds, right?" Shawn guessed, knowing that if he had worked with larger birds like owls or hawks, he would have been required to wear some kind of arm protection, which he obviously hadn't, judging by the marks on his skin.

"Correctomundo, my fine-haired friend," Woody spoke up from where he stood eerily looming over the victim's head.

Shawn's hand returned to his head, his mind making frantic leaps and bounds as it started to make connections between this morning's bird incidents and the bird-lover's death. "This spirits are squawking," he informed his audience. "Chirping... Tweeting?" He blinked, looking at Gus. "Can birds use Twitter?"

"Shawn."

"Right. Well, this just in from at I_Know_Something_You_Don't_Know, hash-tag #suckit: I know what this man's favorite bird was, and almost definitely why he was killed."

"Hash-tag suck it, Shawn? That doesn't make any sense."

"Okay, you know what?  _You_  can hash-tag suck it, Gus."

"I hate to interrupt this moment," Juliet said, looking very much like she would in fact  _love_  to interrupt, "but we're kind of in the middle of a murder investigation here. Shawn, are you saying that you've already figured it out?"

At the same time, Shawn said, "A rather large chunk of it, yes," and Lassiter growled, "No, he hasn't!"

"He spent a lot of time with mockingjays," Shawn revealed, flapping his arms dramatically.

"Don't you mean mockingbirds, Shawn?" Juliet asked. "Mockingjays are from  _The Hunger Games_."

"I'm pretty sure we had the same conversation this morning," Gus huffed, rolling his eyes.

"Agree to disagree – on both counts," Shawn said stubbornly. "But fine, I'll say mockingbirds, but only because  _you_  asked me, Juliet." He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she studied her shoes. Clearing his throat, Shawn announced, "He spent a lot of time with mockingbirds. I'd go so far to say they were probably his favorite. And he was a conservationist, correct? So he'd be keeping a relatively close tab on the birds in the area, particularly mockingbirds, which are all but extinct."

"No, they're not, Shawn," Gus snapped.

Shawn plowed ahead, not even bothering to declare that he'd heard it both ways. He was on a roll. Usually he didn't glean so much information right at the start of an investigation. Of course, usually he didn't find three dead mockingbirds in front of places he frequented, either. He knew without a doubt now that these two were connected – way too much coincidence for them not to be – which was allowing him to draw more conclusions a lot quicker than usual. "If someone was killing or hunting mockingbirds, and our guy was birdwatching or conservationing... conservating? ... conserving? Being a conversationist." Everyone in the room, save for Woody, who was now eating a jelly donut while he listened on in uncharacteristic silence, rolled their eyes in synchronization.

Shawn wasn't bothered by this, and he continued seamlessly. "If he caught someone killing the mockingbirds, he would be mad, right? And if the bird murderer... the birdurer, if you will," (more eye-rolls and a tongue-click from Gus), "had something more nefarious in mind than just killing defenseless little birds, and there was more at stake than just birduring, maybe he felt that the only way to protect himself was to upgrade from birdur to murder."

"That's even more far-fetched than usual, Spencer," Lassiter spat. "Why on earth would there be some bozo out there offing mockingbirds, and even if there were, what deeper motive could they have? Some sickos just like to make animals suffer. It's a way for them to feel empowered."

"True," Shawn conceded. "But there's something I haven't told you yet..."

He reached into his jacket pocket, where he'd been forced to hide Tweety the Third. He'd been planning on giving the bird to Woody after he'd talked to the chief, but now that it appeared that these two cases were connected, he knew he'd have to let the others in on the eventful morning he'd had. He pulled out the plastic baggie with the dead bird in it, watching as everyone's eyes went wide. "This was in front of my place this morning," he said, handing the birdie bag to Woody, who took it eagerly with jelly covered fingers. "Gus found one in front of the Psych office earlier. And my dad called me early this morning to ask me to catch a cat that had killed a mockingbird and left it on his doorstep." Everyone stared.

"I think... I think someone is threatening me, or trying to send a message. And I think that Carter Johnson was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and if he saw the birdurer killing one of the mockingbirds, and the birdurer turned murderer because of it, then whatever this guy has planned isn't over by a long shot. There's a lot more at stake here than a fine for animal cruelty." He nodded at Woody. "Woody here's got the bird that Gus found in front of Psych."

"Haven't had a chance to do an autopsy yet, but from what I have seen so far, it looks like a simple strangling," Woody admitted. "This guy came in shortly after I picked up your bird. Besides, I'm still waiting for my teeny-tiny surgical equipment to come in. The perfect size for little bird innards.  _Adorable._ "

"I'm not sure an autopsy is necessary," Gus said, shaking his head, directly after which, Lassiter growled, "The chief will not be happy if this coming out of department funds." Woody shrugged noncommittally.

"Oh my gosh, Shawn," Juliet breathed. "Why would you wait to tell us this? This could be bad."

"Or it could be nothing," Lassiter countered, although he didn't look terribly sold on that idea. This new development was pretty coincidental and a bit too damning for Lassiter's 'it's-nothing-so-get-back-to-work-you-idiot' radar.

"Shawn," Gus muttered under his breath, "I'm going to kill you for keeping this from me."

"Spencer, if you're right, you could be in a hell of a lot of danger. You really are an idiot for keeping this from the police, you know that, right? Not to mention it's withholding evidence." Whether Lassiter believed it was nothing or not, he never passed up a chance to lecture his irritating co-worker.

"Shawn," Woody chimed in helpfully, "would you like a jelly donut?"

Shawn glared at his friends and Lassiter, shaking his head in irritation. "I didn't even know it was evidence until I found out about this guy," he defended himself, flinging a hand in Carter Johnson's direction. "I thought it was someone playing a prank. I was going to investigate a little on my own to see if it was anything worth reporting, and then I would've taken care of it, one way or another. And I told you now, so what does it matter? And no, Woody, I would not like a formaldehyde-flavored jelly donut."

"It matters because your life could be in danger, Shawn," Juliet said.

"I'm going to talk to the chief, see if we can confirm any of the new information about Johnson that Spencer gave us. In the meantime, I suggest you be careful. If it turns out there's a legitimate concern, the chief'll probably want to put an officer on you, Guster and Henry until we can figure this thing out."

Shawn rolled his eyes as Lassiter finished his warning/lecture and stalked out of the room.

"Well, no use hanging around here all day," he decided. "Gus, drop me off at my place, will you? I'm going to do some investigating of my own there. Talk to the landlord, do a little divining." In this case, divining was synonymous with Googling, but they didn't have to know that.

"I'm coming with you, Shawn."

"Gus, don't be the second  _Men in Black_ movie. As a matter of fact, don't be the first one, either. I need you to ask around the Psych office to see if any of the storeowners on the boardwalk or vendors saw anything."

Gus glanced at Juliet, who nodded, though she still looked troubled. "It's fine, Gus. Lassiter was just saying to be cautious. We really don't know what's going on here, but he's right; it could be nothing." She didn't sound too convinced.

"All right!" said Shawn, grinning widely at Juliet.

"Be careful, Shawn," she warned.

"Aren't I always?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Does Gus really sleep with a nightlight every night?"

"No, I don't!" Gus said a little too defensively, causing Shawn to grin wickedly.

Juliet just shook her head in resignation. "Goodbye, Shawn."


	3. Research Never Killed Anyone, But It Did Get Them Abducted

There was something that Shawn was missing. He felt it, hovering just outside of his line of sight. It was like when you see something out of the corner of your eye, he decided. Your peripheral vision allows you to spot a snatch of color or a dash of movement, and then you snap your head around... and whatever it was that caught your attention in the first place was gone, and you're left wondering if you've completely lost it.

Or at least that was how it often played out in Shawn's life. Being hyper-observant, he often noticed things out of the corner of his eye that were only there for a few seconds – a passing car, someone walking by – and because he seemed to notice things that most people didn't, he was left looking like a crazy person when he spun around to see what had been lurking just out of sight.

Now, Shawn knew without a doubt that something was off, and although he could feel it, almost  _taste_  it, he couldn't find it. And it was driving him  _crazy_!

He unlocked his door, threw his jacket on his bed, and went to his computer. He hadn't wanted to ditch Gus like that, but the whole situation was weirding him out, and he really wanted to try to get a handle on this before he went investigating with Gus, who would be sure to notice that something was bothering Shawn more than usual. Of course, who could blame him, when dead birds were being left for him to find everywhere? But still. Shawn didn't like other people, especially those closest to him, to see him as vulnerable or uncertain. So he was going to dig a little more on his own, and then he would meet back up with Gus and they would catch that evil bird killer before he could harm any more winged wanderers.

"This is a  _fowl_  situation we've got here," he mused to himself, smirking at his humor, and then cursing himself for not thinking of and using that one at the station. It would have gotten a stellar reaction from everyone. Jules would have barely contained an amused smile, Gus would've either fist-bumped him or rolled his eyes, Lassie would have emitted a disgusted grunt, and Woody... well, he wasn't quite sure what Woody would have done. He never could tell with that guy.

His computer booted up, Shawn went to Google, thought for a moment, and then simply typed "mockingbird" into the search bar to see if anything popped up to inspire his slumbering cranium.

"Let's see... Images, Wikipedia, Eminem lyrics, 1000birds . com..." he muttered as he scrolled, and finding nothing else that stuck out to him, he clicked on Wikipedia, which Gus always gave him crap about using, but the website hadn't failed it yet, and even if it did, he would stick with it anyway, if only because Gus hated it.

The article did nothing to help Shawn's focus on the case, and he learned absolutely nothing except that whoever had written this particular piece had gone to boring school.

_Mockingbirds are a group of New World passerine birds from the Mimidae family. They are best known for the habit of some species mimicking the songs of other birds and the sounds of insects and amphibians, often loudly and in rapid succession. There are about 17 species in three genera. These do not appear to form a monophyletic lineage blah blah blah blah blah..._

In all honesty, Shawn wasn't sure if the article actually melted seamlessly into incomprehensible Charlie Brown teacher speech, because he was already zoned out. "Nope," he decided. He thought for a minute. "Someone's killing mockingbirds," he said slowly to the pineapple figurine on his desk. It didn't respond, but Shawn imagined that if it had a face, it would be supporting a reasonably impressed expression at his quick deducing. "What's the significance of dead mockingbirds?"

He Googled "dead mockingbirds."

Zilch. Just something about a band called Dead Mockingbirds and pictures of cartoon mockingbirds lying feet-up in a pool of blood. How awful. Well, this "spirit-channeling" session was turning out splendidly.

One last-ditch effort: "killing a mockingbird."

First result: To Kill a Mockingbird - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

"There's a whole book about how to kill these birds?" he murmured. "That's harsh." The title was somewhat familiar, though, like maybe he'd been supposed to read it in high school and had copied Gus's book report instead. He clicked the link.

To Kill a Mockingbird _is a novel by Harper Lee published in 1960. It was immediately successful, winning the Pulitzer Prize, and has become a classic of modern American literature. The plot and characters are loosely based on the author's observations of her family and neighbors ... blah-blah-blah-dee-blah ... The novel is renowned for its warmth and humor, despite dealing with the serious issues of rape and racial inequality. The narrator's father, Atticus Finch, has served as a moral hero for many readers and as a model of integrity for lawyers ... blah, blah, blah..._

Yeah, now he remembered a bit about this book. He might have actually watched (slept through, same difference) the movie with Gus at one point. Gus had basically idolized that Atticus Finch character, hadn't he, which was weird, because Gus didn't normally idolize white dudes. Shawn was the exception to this rule, obviously, even if it was only in his own mind that Gus idolized him.

Maybe this case could have something to do with the novel, but it didn't make sense. If the themes of the book had to do with the issues of rape and racial inequality – horrible themes for a book, by the way, just distasteful – then Shawn just couldn't make the connection. So he had a black best friend? That didn't make sense. No, it couldn't be connected to this book.

Still, something was nagging at him, so he scrolled down a bit more, skimming over the sub-articles before something caught his eye, and he quickly scrolled back up and read:

 _"'To kill a mockingbird' is to kill that which is innocent and harmless_ –  _like Tom Robinson." Scholars have noted that Lee often returns to the mockingbird theme when trying to make a moral point._

Shawn wasn't sure what he had, but he knew that he had  _something_. He could feel it – not psychically, obviously, but instinctively. This had something to do with the significance of harming something innocent.

He grabbed his coat and helmet, jumped on his bike, and headed to the library.

If he could remember where it was.

Wait. Did Santa Barbara even  _have_  a library?

He shrugged to himself, resolving to ask for directions when he stopped for a smoothie.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Shawn had managed to charm his way into the library with his pineapple smoothie in tow, past the "No food or drinks allowed beyond this point, no exceptions" sign. He'd found a copy of  _To Kill a Mockingbird_  but couldn't be bothered to read it because one, he didn't have the time, and two, he just really didn't want to. Besides, he didn't have a library card. So he approached the indulgent older librarian, Mrs. Moore, who was sitting at her desk. She was about ten years older than his dad, with smile dimples, kind eyes, and a motherly expression. And one heck of a granny fro.

She saw the book in Shawn's right hand and pointedly ignored the smoothie in his left. "Ah, brilliant choice," she beamed. "Reliving high school literature days?"

Shawn smiled brightly. "Of course," he lied. "All the classics... This book..." He searched his mind for titles that he was supposed to have read in high school. "Uh, the Greek one,  _Epidemic Sex_..."

She blinked. "You mean  _Oedipus Rex_?"

"...Sure, sure. Shakespeare. Dr. Seuss. All the classics. 'Red Fish Blue Fish' was a literary gem."

"Uh-huh." She looked a bit taken aback, but he flashed her his charming grin and she smiled back, glancing at the book in Shawn's hand and commenting, "I just  _love_  Harper Lee's narrator, Scout."

"Boy scout? Girl scout? Talent scout?"

"No, a little girl  _named_  Scout." Mrs. Moore looked at her customer strangely. "Are you sure you've read the book?"

Shawn made a show of being charmingly embarrassed. "Actually, Ma'am," he admitted, "I never got to read it. I developed major cataracts in my eyes when we were supposed to read it. It broke my heart." Poor, sweet, gullible Mrs. Moore put a hand to her heart, looking horrified. "But I've been doing some research on it."

"Before you read it?"

"Uh, that's how I read. I learn everything there is to know about a book before I even crack open the cover page. I want to be prepared."

"Interesting approach to literature. Very unique. You must be quite the scholar, young man."

"Sure," Shawn agreed amiably. "So, is there any way you can give me any significant information about the book's themes? Specifically, theories about the whole dead mockingbird thing."

"Oh, the loss of innocence," said Mrs. Moore. "A favorite topic among scholars. Mind you, there's a surprisingly small amount of academic research on this particular novel in comparison to its massive popularity. There are some interesting takes on the story, though." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "I was a college literature professor at Santa Barbara University many years ago, and I taught this book in every single American Literature course."

Not really wanting to go down memory lane with the sweet old librarian, Shawn didn't respond with anything other than a faux-interested, "Really now?"

"I assigned a paper to my students that was meant to focus on any theme they chose for the novel. Oh, most of them were average. 'Loss of Innocence,' 'Racism in the Early 1900s and Its Contribution to Bigotry Today,' etc. But there were several unique perspectives as well. One was by a brilliant little girl named Sophie Lawrence. 'Hope Is the Thing with Feathers, and Innocence Is Its Maker: Emily Dickenson and Harper Lee on the Subject of Innocence.' Brilliant work."

"Title's a little wordy, though," Shawn commented.

"Mm. And then there was this one young man whom I will never forget, poor boy. He focused his paper on Bob Ewell, the villainous, lying, abusive, revenge-seeking antagonist of the story."

"Revenge seeking?" Maybe it was somebody from a past case trying to get him back for something?

"His paper focused on the theme of revenge and retribution, and the psyche of Bob Ewell's character, and how while Sheriff Taylor refused to 'kill a mockingbird' by bringing attention to Boo Radley's good deed, Bob Ewell did the exact opposite and did in fact 'kill a mockingbird' in his attack against Atticus Finch's children to get revenge for the wrongs he felt Atticus had done to him." The names meant nothing to Shawn, but he still got the message loud and clear.

Maybe this wasn't about one of  _his_  cases. Maybe it had to do with his dad.

But still, this was pretty far-fetched, basing some sort of revenge plot on the story-line of a classic book he'd never read. Although he'd based some theories on horror movies, some on comic books, and still others on his favorite 80s movies, and many of them had turned out to be right.

"Mrs. Moore, you don't happen to have a copy of that paper, do you?"

"Well, yes, but there  _is_  a student-teacher confidentiality policy, and Aaron Stevens didn't give me express permission to show his work outside of the academic arena."  _Yet she's parading his name around to an almost complete stranger. Ah well_ , Shawn thought. Better for him. Now he had a name to work with, even in the event that he didn't get a copy of the paper for a while.

"But," she continued, "that was nearly thirty years ago, and after everything that happened with that young boy, well..."

"What happened?" Shawn resisted the urge to start jumping up and down in his urgent quest for information. He had a feeling that everything was going to be coming together pretty soon.

"He was arrested."

"Reeeally now?"

"For murder."

_Ding, we have a winner!_

"Do you know the name of the officer in charge of his case?" He was certain it was going to be his dad.

"Actually, I do, because he was a close family friend. Although he was lead on the case, he wasn't convinced that the student had committed the murder, and I remember him telling me that he was going to keep digging even after he was convicted, try to clear his name if he could. I think he even visited him a few times in prison to check up on him. He was a good man."

" _Was_  a good man?" From the way the librarian was talking, it seemed like the officer she was talking about wasn't around anymore, and her descriptions of the guy's heartfelt actions didn't sound like his dad at all. Maybe this was a dead end, after all. He couldn't expect to visit the library to get a little background information and end up figuring out the whole case. But still... she had taught for years at the biggest university in Santa Barbara. It wouldn't be that much of a coincidence if she'd taught the guy behind all of this at one point. This was looking to be far too convenient to just be a coincidence.

"Yes, he passed away in a car accident over twenty years ago. It was heartbreaking."

"I'm sorry," said Shawn, knowing for sure now that she wasn't talking about his father.

"Oh, but Jim Morton was a wonderful cop," she gushed. "He, along with a lot of the police department, from what he told me, didn't think that the young high school literature teacher couldn't have committed the crime. But the evidence was damning." Shawn was surprised to hear a word stronger than "golly" come out of the librarian's mouth. "I wasn't sure what to believe. One of the lead witnesses was a cop who was off-duty in the case, I think. And according to Jim, he too was adamant that my former student didn't do it. Apparently, the witness did what he could in court to help the boy, but it wasn't enough. He went away for twenty-five years. I think he was recently released on parole, but I haven't heard a peep from him since. Perhaps that's for the best, considering what he was convicted for. Still..."

Shawn wasn't sure why this grandmotherly old librarian would  _want_ a visit from a homicidal former student, but he didn't pursue the topic. Everything was finally starting to come together. He needed to see that paper, he needed to talk to Gus, and most of all, he needed to talk to his dad.

"Mrs. Moore, how soon can you get me that paper?"

She smiled warmly. "I can drop it off at your office as soon as my shift is over at nine. Where is it you work again?"

* * *

"Gus," said Shawn as soon as his best friend answered the phone. "I just got back to my place, and then I'm gonna head over to the Psych office in a few. "I've got a lead, and it's a doozy!"

"No kidding? I got nothing. Apparently, if someone wants to leave a dead bird in front of someone's building, they do it when nobody's around to see it. And I'd say it's the same at your place. And I'm also guessing that you suspected that right from the start. I'm getting the feeling that you were avoiding me."

"Sorry, Buddy. I was just trying to work some stuff out on my own first. I know how you get when dead animals are involved. Remember the sea lion?"

Gus clicked his tongue in annoyance, and Shawn clicked his right back. "Whatever. So what's your lead?"

"It's some crazy, revenge-seeking ex-literature teacher turned murderer turned birdurer, and for some reason, he's obsessed with that book you love so much."

" _Chicken Soup for the Single's Soul_? That's weird for a killer to use as inspiration."

"Gus, I'm going to try to pretend I didn't just hear that. I'm embarrassed  _for_  you right now."

"What's wrong with a single man looking for comfort in the stories and lives of other people like him? The  _Chicken Soup_  books have gotten me through some of the tough spots in my life. Too bad they don't have one for _The Guy with the Obnoxious Best Friend's Soul_."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Gus," he said, hoping to give his oblivious and not-all-that-funny best friend a clue (and simultaneously annoy him), "don't be Basementus Flinch from  _To Kill a Mockingjay_."

As Shawn fished for his key in his pocket, he listened to Gus bristling in irritation on the other end. "First off, Shawn, it's  _Atticus Finch_ , and, once again, it's  _bird_ , not  _jay_. And why  _wouldn't_  I want to be Atticus Finch? He's the greatest character in all of literature."

"You never used to want to be white," Shawn pointed out.

"He was a brother where it counted, Shawn."

"I don't understand that sentence at all."

"You know what, forget it. If you want to make fun of my favorite character in my favorite novel of all time, then fine. Do it. I will take a leaf from Atticus's book and treat you like a person nonetheless."

"Ah, because a person's a person no matter how small," Shawn quoted wisely.

"That's  _Horton Hears a Who_ , Shawn."

"I've—"

"No, you really haven't. So what book are you talking about?"

Shawn rolled his eyes as he unlocked his door. Shawn had waved the answer right under Gus's super smeller. Gus himself had even said that  _To Kill a Mockingbird_  was his favorite book of all time. It seemed that Shawn had worked Gus into such a lather that he was still too frustrated to connect the dots. Once Gus had a chance to calm down, though, he'd make the connection almost immediately.

"It'll come to you, Gus."

"Shawn, I—"

A hand reached out right as Shawn crossed the threshold into his dry cleaner's/apartment, snatching the phone out of Shawn's hand and hanging it up. Another hand shot from the shadows and locked itself around Shawn's mouth, dragging the fake psychic into his apartment, while Shawn, taken off guard and struggling futilely, tried to call for help... but no one was around to hear him as he was dragged into the building and the door was kicked shut behind him.


	4. Nuclear Iron Giant vs. Shawn and the Magical Spinning Coat Hanger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Psych, Iron Giant, or Storage Wars, or To Kill a Mockingbird.
> 
> Enjoy, please review! :)

Adrenaline took over as Shawn was dragged violently into his darkened apartment. With a wild burst of strength, he slammed his elbow deep into his attacker's gut. The assailant folded slightly under the hit, but Shawn had felt what seemed to be the very semblance of solid steel when his elbow had connected with whoever had grabbed him.

Shawn didn't take time to dwell on it, though, because his attacker's grip had loosened the teeniest bit when Shawn had elbowed him, and he used the opportunity to wrench the hand away from his mouth and slam the bad guy's other hand down with with his own other hand. Shawn heard the clatter of his iPhone hitting the ground right after he knocked the guy's arm aside, and he winced. Whoops. Oh, well. He could worry abut his phone later.

Right now, he was more concerned with the fact that his new pal had already recovered from the blow and was reaching for his prey once again. Shawn dove to the side. He hadn't even gotten a chance to get a good look at his attacker because of the darkness in his apartment and the fact that he'd been busy trying to escape, but now, as he jumped aside, he saw in the dim light coming from the closed blinds that he was wearing a ski mask. Well. That wasn't very helpful in identifying his attacker at all. And he was freaking  _huge_.

Unfortunately, Shawn's attempt at evading his attacker wasn't one hundred percent effective, and even though he missed getting his face smashed in by the giant, gloved, meaty fist that had been barreling toward him at an alarming speed, it didn't miss him completely. The fist grazed the side of his head, not enough to knock him out, but definitely hard enough to stun him.

Shawn dropped to the ground, the back of his head smacking against the not-so-soft floor of the old dry cleaner's. He let out a short yelp of pain, but somehow managed to come out of his stupor when he saw a foot coming for his head. He rolled aside, barely avoiding being kicked in the temple by a heavy looking boot. This guy wasn't playing around.

Clutching his aching head and trying to clear his vision - which hadn't been that great to begin with either, since his lights were off and the blinds weren't letting too much outside light come in - Shawn realized that he had wound up on the ground next to his Magical Spinning Coat Hanger. At least, that's what he liked to call the rotating machine to hang clothes on that he had gotten with the dry cleaner's. With the hand that wasn't cradling his pounding head, Shawn struggled to claw and pull his way to a standing position using the Magical Spinning Coat Hanger as a crutch. Thankfully, it wasn't spinning right now, because he didn't think his head - or his stomach, for that matter; he was feeling really sick all of a sudden, probably something to do with getting punched in the head - could take it.

He made some semblance of getting to his feet and was about to turn around when he realized that his attacker had definitely had enough time to launch another assault on him by now. An eerie tingling tickled the back of his neck, and he turned to face the direction he'd last seen, and evaded, the bad guy.

The silent, violent attacker was just standing there, studying Shawn as he tried to regain his feet. Shawn couldn't see his face, but he had a feeling by the relaxed way the man was holding himself and the way his head was cocked slightly to the left as he watched Shawn that he was slightly amused, and not at all worried about the outcome of this fight.

Shawn blinked heavily several times, trying to clear his head. "What... What do you want?"

The man cocked his head to the right, still to quiet for Shawn's liking. When he could engage the bad guy in conversation, he had a bit more control, more time to stall. But this guy was super-quiet, super-violent, and seemed to be made of metal.

Shawn decided that until he knew for sure who his attacker was, he would be Iron Giant, from the part of the movie where the giant's war-mode was turned on and he went all Terminator. Which made Shawn El Marienthal and the other guy an angry, crazy Vin Diesel. That made his dad Jennifer Anniston. That was just messed up, not to mention creepy. No, he'd just be everyone else who was threatened by Nuclear Iron Giant, and that way, Gus - who he  _really_  hoped had figured out that something was wrong and was on his way to rescue him, preferably with the police in tow - could either be Marienthal or Harry Connick, Jr.

All of these thoughts flew through Shawn's head in a matter of seconds, and then he shook himself out of this line of thought when he saw that Iron Giant was slowly moving toward him.

"Look," Shawn said with more bravado than he felt, "if this is about the mockingbird thing, let me assure you that I'm in the process of planning very elaborate funeral services for our three mutual friends." He staggered to the side, away from the Magical Spinning Coat Hanger, backing up the best he could. It soon became apparent, however, that he was being herded against the wall, toward the back corner of the room, whee there would be no escape.  _Come on, Gus, Jules, even Lassie! Where are you?_

He was in the corner now. Shawn tried to give himself a little mental pep talk, reassuring himself that "nobody puts the fake psychic in the corner," but apparently, Iron Giant had done just that. Shawn attempted to duck as the man's massive hand reached for him, but his dizziness and pain made his reaction time more sluggish than he'd expected. He braced himself for a fist to the face, but instead, there was suddenly a choking pressure on his throat as the giant wrapped one huge hand around his neck and started to squeeze.

Shawn choked and spluttered, and released his aching head so that he could desperately pull at the beefy hand - oh, wait, make that  _hands_  now - that were intent on squeezing every ounce of air in his lungs and guarding his airway so that no more could get in. The corners of his vision were going black. He wheezed, his hands starting to go numb as he beat vainly at the hands choking him, each hit weaker than the last as he started to lose consciousness.

Right as he was about to give into the darkness, he was lifted by his neck and tossed across the room, crashing against the wall and causing something - was that his portrait from the Lodge? It better not get messed up! - to crash down on his head. He landed in a pile of limp and tingling limbs, trying his best to suck precious air into his starved lungs. His throat hurt, even more than it had after getting his tonsils taken out in the third grade. His head was pounding, his vision foggy. He had absolutely no strength in his body. He couldn't even manage to lift his head as Iron Giant came forward. Shawn couldn't see him with his blurred vision, but he could hear his footsteps.

Shawn allowed his eyes to flutter closed as the man approached him. He'd fought. It might not have been a great fight, or even a good one for that matter. But it was a fight. And now... Now...

Now...

What about that?

Now, there was nothing.

* * *

Henry checked the trap again when he got back from the grocery store. Still no cat. However, it seemed that a raccoon had found its way into the cage and had eaten every bite of the cat food, and now it was glaring at him with yellow eyes from behind that black mask. It hissed. He thought about letting the critter go, but he needed to see his son's face when he saw what his cat-trap had caught. Shawn had an unnatural fear of raccoons, and this was one golden opportunity that he couldn't pass up.

He was about to turn around to go into his house when he saw that the flag on his mailbox was up. That was odd. He hadn't tried to send anything, and anyway, the mail had run several hours ago.

Inside was an envelope that simply said,  _Henry_. Eyebrows furrowed, and the beginnings of an icy claw worming its way into his gut, he opened the envelope, making sure to hold his breath in case it contained any powdered poison.

It didn't.

But he probably would have preferred it if it did.

 _I trust you found my mockingbird_  
And now my gift for written word.  
I'll be the Ewell to your Finch,  
And Baby Bird is in a pinch.  
His wing will break, but still he'll sing  
Melodies of misery...  
Be forewarned:  
This is not the last you'll hear from me.

He didn't know what it meant, but he did know that the included pictures of Shawn setting up the cat trap just that morning, chatting with Gus in front of the Psych office this morning with Gus, and getting off his motorcycle at the station were very real, very serious, and meant that his son was in very real danger. Someone had been stalking his son, and he hadn't even noticed!

Fury welling up inside of him, he read the note again, but it didn't make any more sense than it had the first time. This killer was obsessed with birds... mockingbirds, finches... but what the hell was an Ewell? He could assume Baby Bird was Shawn, which meant that Henry was a Finch. He'd watched those funny little feather-balls on numerous occasions during his bird-watching excursions, and he was proud to say he was nothing like them. They were flighty, chipper, and fluffy. Henry was grounded, gruff, and balding (as much as he hated to admit it). But there had to be some significance, he just wasn't getting it.

At any rate, he didn't like the sound of broken wings and melodies of misery. He immediately pulled out his phone and dialed Shawn's number.

Straight to voicemail.

This wasn't good. He called Gus, hoping Shawn was with him.

"Gus, have you talked to Shawn?"

"I was talking to him about ten or fifteen minutes ago," said Gus, sounding irritated. "I was seriously in the middle of a sentence, and he just hung up on me for no reason. And then he started ignoring my calls."

Not good at all.

"Did he say where he was when you talked to him?"

"His apartment. Why? You don't think something's happened to him, do you? Because I'll be honest, I just thought he was being an ass."

"Oh, he was definitely doing that," Henry agreed dryly, already racing to his truck, pulling his keys out of his pocket. "It's kind of a given with Shawn. I need to get off here and call the chief. We've got a problem. It looks like Shawn could be in some serious trouble."

He hung up before Gus could respond, and then he was dialing another number, even as he sped down the road in the direction of Shawn's apartment. "Karen? It's Henry. I've got something that you'll want to see, and I think Shawn might be in danger. Can you have someone meet me at Shawn's place, the old Mimi's Fluff-n-Fold? I've got a really bad feeling about this."

* * *

Shawn woke up slowly, his body limp and weak. He wondered blearily what had happened, why his arms hurt and his head throb and he couldn't feel his hands. As a matter of fact, with the exception of his apparently AWOL hands, his whole body was aching. What the heck had he gotten himself into?

He peeled his eyes open, even though his eyelids suddenly seemed to be made of iron, way heavier than they should be. Once he'd opened them, however, he found that even though his vision was swimming, he had an easier time keeping them open than he had had prying them open in the first place. He blinked slowly several times, trying to clear his blurred vision so he could better see where he was and what kind of predicament he'd found himself in. His head was still very fuzzy, and he was only getting disjointed flashes in his memory of somebody in his apartment, and maybe something about Harry Connick, Jr.

When his vision finally cleared enough to make out his surroundings, he saw with surprise and a considerable amount of confusion that he seemed to be in some sort of abandoned courtroom. Or a semblance of one, anyway. He was standing - well, hanging, his feet brushing the surface below him, but once he got his legs in some sort of working order, he'd try to get them beneath him to relieve some of the pressure from his screaming arms, back, and shoulders. Coarse rope was wound tightly and painfully around and then between his wrists, and the end of the rope seemed to be wrapped around or tethered to some sort of a support beam about six feet above his head. From what he could see of his hands as he squinted up through the dim lighting of the windowless building he was in, they were stark white, save for the flesh bordering the rope that was digging into his skin, which was bright red and swollen. There were small streaks of blood coming from beneath the too-tight rope and trickling down his forearms, toward his shoulders.

Well, that explained why he couldn't feel his hands.

Grunting with the effort, his chin flopping to land on his chest as he looked down, Shawn struggled to get his limp and uncooperative legs beneath him. They, too, were sore and tingly, but finally, he managed to get them underneath him so that he was balancing on the wooden surface beneath them. He almost dropped back down then, because the act of removing the strain from his arms was even more painful than his hanging by the wrists. "Gah..." He gasped loudly at the sudden surge of pain and nearly unbearable pins-and-needles that immediately sprung into his hurting arms. He bit his lip and kept his feet steady beneath him despite the sudden wave of dizziness that washed over him, and after a couple minutes of panting from the pain and exertion, he got another, clearer look around where he was being held.

It wasn't a courtroom like he'd initially thought. It seemed to be some kind of storage building, not big enough to be a warehouse, but much bigger than the kind of storage units you usually saw on  _Storage Wars_. Not that he watched that show. Gus had a strange obsession with it, though, and also a nearly debilitating fear that his own storage unit would someday be victimized by the TV show, which was stupid, and he'd told Gus as much, but his best friend could be quite stubborn and exceedingly paranoid, to the point of ridiculousness.

So Shawn had done what any true and clever best friend would do – he faked a phone call to the show, tipping them off to a Mr. Burton Guster's storage unit, which he had assured the unimpressed dial tone of their office phone was packed with all kinds of goodies, even though it really just contained Gus's precious comic book collections that he'd not had room or in his apartment, some crappy college books that no one, not even Amazon buyers, had been interested in taking off his hands, and a few other odds and ends from childhood that Gus refused to give up. All in all, it would probably be valued at less than fifty dollars, although Gus claimed his comic books were mint condition and valuable, or some such nonsense. Gus had nearly had a heart attack when he heard Shawn's faked phone call, and had threatened to kill him in his sleep even after he found out that it was all a ruse.

Wait, what was he thinking about? Crap, he was drifting. His head pounded. He thought he might have a concussion, because he had been thrown against the wall pretty hard, hadn't he? And he'd been punched in the side of the face by the Iron Giant.

And with that memory, everything about the case and his kidnapping came crashing back to him, and he swallowed heavily, knowing that he was in a great deal of trouble. As if he hadn't figured that out already, what with his being kidnapped and subsequently strung up from the ceiling.

And if he was right – and he was almost positive that he was – this all had to do with his dad, which meant that Shawn himself was just a pawn in this. That revelation didn't make him feel any better. In fact, he thought that it actually made him feel worse, because pawns were generally the first to be sacrificed. And if this guy was after his dad... His heart pounded. His dad was in danger, and Shawn hadn't even been able to warn him.

Blinking heavily, breathing hard from pain and exhaustion, with his own heartbeat drumming loudly in his ears, he returned his attention back to his prison, the storage building playing dress-up as a courtroom.

The walls were made of heavy wood, as was the ceiling and its support beams. The lack of windows, the one large room and the shape of the roof above his head was what had told him that this wasn't a house. He might have thought shed, but it was too large and sturdily built for that. So he concluded that it was a storage building, but one that was privately owned, which was bad news for him, because it meant that he was probably well away from anyone who might have been nearby in a storage complex. Of course, the lack of gag over his mouth probably should have clued him in to that right away.

Oh well, a concussion and probably some oxygen starvation from being strangled would probably do that to a person.

What looked like stands for a jury were in front of him. Shawn might have just thought it was a small set of wooden bleachers, but there was a judge's podium to his right, complete with a heavy-looking metal gavel – who had a  _metal_ gavel? – and some file folders labeled "EVIDENCE." His feet were balancing on a raised platform that was situated in such a way in relation to the jury stands and the podium that he knew it was supposed to be a witness' stand. The floor of the stand beneath him was raised at least a foot from the ground. He noted with no small amount of apprehension that there seemed to be the outline of some sort of trapdoor in the center of the platform right beneath his feet. He wasn't sure what it was for, but he didn't think it could be anything good.

There were also two long tables set up between Shawn and the jury's seats. One heavy wooden chair sat behind each table, and there were more file folders, these blank and therefore useless to Shawn's analysis of the room. A single bared bulb hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, illuminating the dull light over the interior of the building and casting strange shadows on the walls.

There was a door with no handle across the room, only a round silver plate where the doorknob would normally be, with a large keyhole in the middle. The only way anyone could get in or out of this building was with a key.

Shawn almost full-on panicked then.

Whatever was going on, whatever twisted scenario he'd found himself in, there was absolutely no way out. None. He was trapped in a box, hanging like a puppet from its strings, and the only way to get outside of the box was for someone to open the door from the outside, cut him down, and send him on his way.

And as his abductor was almost certainly the only person with the key to open the door, he had a bad feeling that that wasn't going to happen.

Shawn almost always had a plan. His quick mind and quicker mouth had always found him a way out of the worst situations. Or at the very least, stalled long enough for help to arrive. But now, he was in an impossible position, his limits stretched further than they'd ever been before – literally and figuratively – and there was no one here to talk to in order to stall, no help on the way. There was a chance that Gus had realized that something was wrong, but it was equally as likely that he might not, considering Shawn would often simply cut off a call with his friend if he got tired of the line of conversation, or of hearing Gus lecture him. Shawn vowed to never hang up on his friend again.

If he ever stopped hanging from the ceiling in this windowless, doorless box, that is.

The point was, even if Gus realized something was wrong, no one had any idea about what was going on. Shawn cursed himself for keeping so much of this case to himself. He should have told  _someone_  about his theories far before he'd called Gus. He wasn't even sure why he hadn't. Maybe it was his pride, wanting to have the one-up on the case for a more spectacular vision, or just sheer stubbornness.

And on top of that, if his theory about this case was right – and he was almost positive that it was – his dad was going to get drawn into this too, and because of Shawn's stupidity, he had no idea of the danger he was in. Shawn should have told him what he'd suspected when his father had demanded to know what was going on earlier in the day.

Shawn let his arms sag as much as they could – which wasn't much, there was barely any slack in the rope connecting him to the ceiling – in an attempt to relieve the pain and exhaustion from having them held above his head for so long.

Hopelessness spilled over him in buckets of despair, and the pain continued to rage through his body.

With nothing else to do, with no help coming and no chance of escape, Shawn closed his eyes, defeated.

He waited, but for what, he didn't know.

He found that he didn't really want to know what he was waiting for, because he had a terrible foreknowledge that he didn't need to be a psychic to see - that when that doorknobless door opened and his captor stepped in, his already suck-tastic situation was only going to get worse.

Much, much worse.


	5. Hang In There, Shawn (As If You've Got a Choice)

The first thing that Henry saw upon approaching his son's place of residence was that the door was cracked open. It wasn't because the police had come and forced their way in, either. Henry was closer to Shawn's place than the station, and he had gone ten miles over the speed limit – something he never did, in lieu of an emergency – the whole way there. Even if they used the sirens and lights, which he doubted they would, since they didn't know what was going on, or if Shawn really was in trouble, the police probably would still not have gotten there before him.

Henry knew that Shawn was in trouble, even if he didn't know exactly what was going on.

It wasn't just because of the overwhelming evidence to that fact – Shawn's being disconnected abruptly with Gus, all calls to his phone going straight to voicemail, the cryptic poem and pictures in Henry's mailbox, the sudden foreboding realization that there was no "Sylvester" leaving dead mockingbirds on his porch, but someone with ill intent – but Henry could also feel it in his gut, which was curling in upon itself, getting tighter and tighter the closer he came to the place his son had last been. He had good instincts as a cop, and even though he knew that his relationship with Shawn was far from perfect, he had nearly impeccable instincts as a father.

And his son was in grave danger.

What the heck kind of case had Shawn gotten himself into this time?

The police would be there within the next few minutes; he told himself that since he was retired and a civilian, that he should wait for their arrival before he ventured into the potential crime scene on his own.

He stood looking at the ominously open door swinging lightly in the breeze for all of five seconds before shoving the notion out of his head. He hurried back to his truck, opened the dash, and pulled out a box of disposable latex gloves that he kept in the vehicle at all times, just in case – old habits die hard, he supposed – and pulled on a pair of gloves so he wouldn't contaminate any possible fingerprints, though he seriously doubted this person was dumb enough not to wear gloves, and had a bad feeling that they wouldn't get anything by way of fingerprint analysis. He then made his way into the old dry cleaners, his heart hammering, afraid of what he was going to find once he flipped on the light switch.

This was his son, dammit, and he wasn't going to let anything, not even the protocol that he upheld and defended to this day, get in his way.

* * *

Chief Vick, followed immediately by a dark blue Crown Vic containing Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter, pulled up to Mimi's Fluff-n-Fold and parked. She jumped out of the car and hurried to the open door of the establishment, the detectives on her heels. She noted the familiar tan truck and blue Echo also parked in front of the building, along with the younger Spencer's motorcycle, helmet hanging from one of the handlebars. Mr. Guster and Henry Spencer had already gone in, two civilians breaking the protocol that they knew very well for the well-being of their loved one.

She had expected nothing less.

"Henry?" she said softly as she slipped through the open door. The overhead lights were on, revealing the scene set before her. Henry Spencer was sitting on the edge of his son's bed, holding something small and bright green in a gloved hand. Where'd he get the gloves? Karen only wondered for a brief moment, deciding that knowing Henry, he probably always had a pair of latex gloves on his person or in his truck just in case he happened to run across a crime scene. She wouldn't put it past him at all.

Once a cop, always a cop. And Henry Spencer had been, and still was, a damn good cop.

Mr. Guster was seated gingerly beside his best friend's father. Karen wasn't sure if he was more afraid of disturbing the evidence or of Shawn's father. Both men looked worried.  _Very_  worried.

The detectives hurried into the room behind her; Juliet's breath immediately caught. "Oh, no..."

There were definite signs of a scuffle. The moving clothes hanger machine, the kind that often inhabited dry cleaner's – Karen had no idea what those things were actually called – heavy as it was, had been moved several paces from its usual spot, as told by the dust ring twenty inches from whee the machine now sat. The Lodge portrait of the younger Spencer had fallen off the wall, the frame he'd had it set in shattered. A small but still terrifying streak of blood wandered down the wall, dried and ominous. More blood could be seen on some of the shattered fragments of the portrait's frame. A desk chair sat on its side. And the green object that Henry was holding? It was Shawn's phone.

Seeing Karen's gaze on the phone, Shawn's father held it out for the newcomers to see. "Found it on the floor, there," he said, and she followed the direction he'd pointed with his free hand. For the first time, Karen noticed a small 'X' marked on the floor with a couple of pieces of scotch tape. Henry hadn't missed a step, and once again she found herself wondering why he'd retired when he was obviously still at the head of his game. "It's been shattered. Useless."

"How did you even know anything was wrong?" Detective Lassiter asked, eyebrows furrowing as he regarded the elder Spencer and the subdued Guster at his side.

Gus answered the question before the older man could, miserably explaining, "I should have realized that something was wrong. Shawn's call with me was abruptly cut off, and I just assumed he was trying to get on my nerves. It wouldn't be the first time he's done it," he added urgently, his eyes pleading for them to understand that he hadn't meant to contribute to the disappearance of his closest friend, which he hadn't, but the chief could clearly see the guilt, misplaced as it was, in his dark eyes.

"Shawn has always been a bit unpredictable," Juliet offered sincerely. "You couldn't have known."

"But if you didn't think anything of it, then how did you figure out something was wrong?" questioned Karen.

Gus blinked. "Mr. Spencer called me about ten minutes after I last talked to Shawn. He wanted to know if I'd talked to him, when, and what had happened." He frowned. "I realized then that something bad had happened and I headed here right away, but... what made you suspicious?" he asked Henry.

Henry sighed heavily and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out an envelope simply addressed to "Henry" and proffering it to the chief. She quickly took it, trying to push back the worry that was trying to encroach upon her mind. Inside the envelope was a note, along with several pictures of Shawn as he went about his day, completely unaware that he was being followed and photographed by a stalker. She swallowed hard, passed the pictures to Detective Lassiter, who flipped through them quickly, looking a bit more concerned than he had upon arrival. Before she turned to the note in her hand, she heard Juliet's soft gasp and knew the detective was taking the situation hard.

She unfolded the note and read it out loud, not at all sure what the message of the ominous poem was – other than that Shawn was in terrible danger. Her confusion bled through her words as she read, despite her efforts to sound completely confident and in-control.

"I trust you found my mockingbird, and now my gift for written word. I'll be the Ewell to your Finch, and Baby Bird is in a pinch. His wing will break, but still he'll sing melodies of misery... be forewarned: This isn't the last you'll hear from me." She frowned, frustrated and utterly lost. "Henry, does this make any sense to you?"

"Only that it has something to do with the mockingbird I found on my porch earlier," he said.

"Oh my gosh," said Guster, sitting up straight, eyes wide and fearful.

"You know something, Guster?" Lassiter demanded.

Gus shook his head as if trying to clear it. "Shawn had it figured out," he breathed. A look of surprise, maybe even shock, took over his features for a brief moment. "Which meant that he actually did real research," he breathed, almost to himself. Then he turned back to the matter at hand, disbelief still evident in his voice. "He told me that this case had something to do with my favorite book, but I was so flustered at the time that I didn't get what he was telling me – I was thinking he was referencing my  _current_  favorite, not my lifelong favorite. But it was so obvious! He even said not to be Atticus from the book, in his own convoluted way! I can't  _believe_  I didn't catch that!"

"Gus, beating yourself up isn't going to help Shawn," Juliet gently reminded him.

"What book are you talking about?" Henry asked sharply.

Juliet, whose eyes were wide with understanding, answered before Gus had a chance to. " _To Kill a Mockingbird_ ," she supplied gravely. Karen vaguely remembered reading the book in high school, but nothing more than the title and the basic plot. Names and details were lost in years of college and police academy. "Bob Ewell was the antagonist in the novel!" Juliet breathed. "I can't believe we didn't see it right away!"

"Join the club; we have t-shirts," Gus remarked dryly.

"Okay,  _what_  are we talking about? And what does it have to do with Shawn?" the chief demanded.

"It's not just Shawn, it's got to do with Mr. Spencer. The note says that Mr. Spencer is 'Finch' and the bad guy is 'Ewell,'" Gus explained hurriedly. "Bob Ewell was angry with Atticus Finch for defending a black man in court, who had been falsely accused by him and his daughter of rape. And even though Tom Robinson was sentenced to jail anyway, and then later shot trying to escape the prison, Ewell was still really angry about the secrets that had come out because of Atticus during the trial about himself and his family. And so he went after what Atticus treasured more than anything in the world for revenge."

"His children, Scout and Jem," Juliet said, face paling. "He assaulted them on their way back from a festival of some kind and broke Jem's arm before Boo Radley came out of the house and stabbed Ewell before the man could kill the children."

"Broken wing," Henry recalled hoarsely.

"So, what – he's going to grab Spencer and break his arm like in the book for revenge because of something Henry did to him?" Lassiter didn't look convinced.

"No. He's going to  _kill_  my son because of something he blames of doing to him." Henry's face was grim. "And I don't have a clue who he is or what I did to anger him, but I can tell you one thing almost certainly: the only reason Shawn isn't dead yet is because this psycho is wanting to make a spectacle out of it."

"This is Yang all over again," moaned Gus, wringing his hands worriedly.

"Don't worry, Guster." She made eye contact with Shawn's father. "Henry, we'll find him." She reached for her radio to call for backup.

"Do you have  _any_  idea who we could be dealing with here?" O'Hara asked, her voice trilling slightly with anxiety, but she kept up her professional demeanor quite well, and Karen was silently proud of her for that.

Henry thought long and hard, and when he finally spoke, it was with the gravest of expressions on his face and a voice heavy with despair.

"I haven't the slightest clue, Detective. Absolutely no idea."

* * *

Shawn didn't know how long he stood – or hung – there in the faux courtroom, but by the time he heard something other than his own heavy breathing, erratic heartbeat and occasional, fruitless cries for help, his arms had gone completely numb, and he had been doing more hanging than standing, because his shaking legs kept slipping about on the surface beneath him, belligerently refusing to hold him for very long.

His eyes snapped open when he heard a faint sound coming from somewhere outside of his boxy prison. It was a jangling sound, like someone finding a key on a key ring. Never mind that there was no handle on this door. Or maybe there was a doorknob on the outside, or, more likely, another knobless lock that could only be opened with a key.

Something clicked inside the door. Shawn waited with bated breath. He'd been desperate for  _something_  to happen earlier, the suspense of waiting and hanging and the claustrophobia quickly taking over his mind, but now he willed the person at the door to turn back and go away – unless they were rescue, of course – because he'd had quite a lot of time to think and fret about his situation, and he'd definitively decided that whatever hell he _thought_  he was going through right now, whatever his captor had planned was going to be far worse.

Not that hanging there helpless and subsequently starving to death would be that much better.

In his mind, he heard Gus's voice.  _Lack of water will kill you long before starvation does, Shawn_ , his know-it-all best friend's voice informed him. Great, now he was thirsty.

"Suck it," Shawn mumbled under his breath at his friend who wasn't really there, wondering if he was losing it.

The door began to swing inward. It glided open noiselessly, and Shawn was alarmed to see that on the other side of the now-open doorway, it was dark. It hadn't been that late when he'd been taken. He'd been gone for quite some time, he'd known, but it was just a big world of yawning black out there, meaning that it was well into the night. Surely someone would have noticed that he was missing by now.

And just as surely, anyone who noticed his absence wouldn't have the first clue about where to look for him.

For a long moment after the door opened, nothing happened. Shawn waited, heart pounding in his chest and echoing in his ears, pain thrumming through his body with every beat.

And then a man ran into the room. Or rather, stumbled. As if he'd been pushed.

Shawn blinked, taken completely by surprise at the sight that greeted him. Before him, kneeling in the floor, was an old man, maybe five or six years older than Shawn's dad. He had the kind of face that made it hard to tell exactly how old he was, though. It was also covered in blood, so that made it a little harder to tell, too.

The man caught himself on bound hands, his mouth covered with a wide strip of duct tape and his eyes wide and terrified above a swollen, bloody nose.

Shawn stared for a long moment, taking in the man's dirty, torn, but obviously finely tailored suit. The glimpse that Shawn had gotten of his shoes before he fell to his knees said they were expensive leather dress shoes, something that only successful, rich men would be able to afford. A gold watch glinted on his right wrist.

The man knelt there, panting, terrified, and Shawn managed to croak out, pain lacing his every word, "You okay, man?" It was barely louder than a whisper, but it got the newcomer's attention. His eyes shot up to find the owner of the voice, and his face paled when he saw the spectacle before him. He'd obviously figured out that his situation could get much worse. The man grunted behind the gag, a desperate cry for help, which was ridiculous, because Shawn wasn't even in a position to help himself, let alone this rich old dude.

After several long moments where the tension in the air was palpable, another figure entered the building, stepping purposefully and confidently into the room behind his newest captive.

It was the Iron Giant.

Or, as Shawn had put together after talking to the librarian earlier that day – it seemed like a lifetime ago, Shawn thought – it was... "Aaron Stevens," Shawn said, and his voice was much weaker than he'd have liked.

He hadn't been sure if his kidnapper had been the man Mrs. Moore had told him about, the homicidal schoolteacher. For all he'd known when he was being attacked by the guy, he could have been the hired help, the brawn to do the guy's dirty work. But now that the mask was off, Shawn was able to see clearly in the man's chiseled face and dark eyes a superior intelligence, a desperate thirst for something (revenge, or maybe Vodka, but Shawn was leaning more toward the revenge part at the moment, considering the circumstances), and haunting darkness, or was that sorrow? Possibly both.

He was tall, probably a good four or five inches taller than Shawn himself. He had tan skin stretched tightly over bulging muscles. His face was hard and worn, graying blonde hair growing close to his head and dark, stormy gray eyes studying Shawn almost curiously from within slightly sunken sockets. His eyebrows were thick and gave him the appearance of always being angry. Or maybe he just _was_  always angry. His nose was large and hooked, like it had been broken several times. His high cheekbones and small chin almost gave his otherwise good-looking face the semblance of a skeleton with skin pulled tightly over the prominent bones. He was wearing gray jeans, a black hoodie, and mud (or was it blood?) splattered combat boots, steel-toed, it seems. He carried a dark blue backpack on his shoulders, and he had what looked to be a single oddly shaped key on a key ring in his right hand, what Shawn assumed to be the only way in and out of the room.

He looked like a pro-wrestler who had decided to make a career change to cat burglar.

He was most definitely the mastermind behind all of this, and whoever this Aaron Stevens was, whatever he had against Shawn and his dad (Shawn still hadn't completely worked out that part yet), he confirmed Shawn's words with an ominous, bitter smile.

"You are pretty good," he said, his voice low and gravelly as he closed the door behind him and pocketed the key. Shawn didn't respond, only continued to warily watch the man who had made his life so difficult for... well, the last twenty-four hours, at least. Wow, had that little time passed already? This guy must have been really motivated, or just really impatient, what with his moving his plans along so quickly.

"They weren't supposed to find the bird watcher," the man said, as if reading Shawn's thoughts. "I was going to take my time, draw this out, but then that damn tree-hugger saw me strangling one of those pesky mockingbirds and confronted me, and I had no choice but to kill him. And then someone found him, and plans... had to move forward. I barely even had time to drop your father off a little hello note after I collected you, but thankfully, the old man wasn't home and the mailbox was unguarded when I drove by." He smirked. "But that's okay. I've been eager to set this in motion for months, anyway."

Shawn felt his stomach clench even more at the confirmation that his dad was being targeted too. He tried to sound unaffected and only mildly inconvenienced when he responded to Stevens, but Shawn's voice was strained with thirst and pain when he asked, trying and failing for all of his usual cocky confidence to show up in his words and voice, "Months, huh? If you were so eager to–" he gasped slightly in pain as his legs shifted slightly underneath him and his arms were pulled, "–to enact whatever crazy revenge plot you've got going on here, why didn't you do it sooner?"

The man didn't answer, only asked, "Do you know who I am, Shawn Spencer?"

"Aaron Stevens," Shawn repeated dully. "I already told you."

"You know my  _name_ ," Aaron said slowly. "But I want to know if you know  _who I am_."

"Oh, like an eHarmony profile, right?" Shawn quipped weakly. "Long walks on the beach and strange eating habits? Tell you what, how about you cut me down from here and order us a pineapple pizza and a soda and I'll tell you what I've divined?" He  _really_ needed the pressure off of his arms. It was getting harder and harder by the minute to hold back gasps of pain at the waves of agony that seared through his stretched and beaten body and regular intervals.

"Sorry, Mr. Spencer, but you're here for the long haul. How about I _don't_  let you down, and you tell me anyway?"

"Doesn't seem like much of a compromise to me," Shawn argued petulantly.

"Fine. You do your psychic magic on me, tell me what you've 'divined,' and if you impress me, I'll give you some water. Deal?"

Shawn thought about arguing, even though it would probably be the dumbest option in this situation, but his burning throat reminded it that it had been hours since that smoothie at the library. "Fine," he said shortly, doing his best to ignore another wave of pain shooting through him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bringing to mind every piece of evidence he had compiled during the past twenty-four hours or so. He mentally sorted through his cache of information, making connections and rapidly drawing conclusions.

Not rapidly enough, it seemed. "Hurry up, Psychic. I don't have all day."

Shawn opened his eyes and glared at his captor, who was still standing threateningly over the old man cowering on the floor. The rich old guy had something to do with this thing; he was as much of a part of Aaron's plan as Shawn and his dad were. Shawn just needed to figure out who he was and how he fit into.

"You cannot rush the spirit world," Shawn informed him icily. His right arm spasmed slightly and he grimaced. "But I think I have a pretty good idea." He took a deep breath. "You're a scholar. You worked hard in school, attended college, taught at a local high school, and were particularly interested in that book,  _To Kill a Mockingjay_."

" _To Kill a_  Mockingbird," Aaron growled angrily, confirming that he had a strong personal connection to the book.

"Don't interrupt, please," Shawn responded, mentally kicking himself for his big mouth as soon as he opened it, but Aaron didn't seem to be terribly interested in beating him into submission at this juncture, not that he'd had a problem with it earlier when he'd grabbed Shawn in the first place. "You weren't as interested in the bigger themes like your classmates. Instead, you were focused on the ideas of revenge and justice. Maybe because you always had a strong yearning for justice, right? I mean, whatever you're doing here says that you're trying to take revenge on us for some reason, probably in an attempt to restore some kind of justice.

"Your term paper that semester was loved by your teacher, but you refused to let her share your work with others. Maybe you thought that your work was just too great for public consumption. In your mind, you'd stumbled across a new way of thinking about the novel, and you weren't going to let just anyone get their hands on your research. And somehow that obsession with that book has bled into your revenge plan, because you're trying to replicate the idea of revenge and justice in the real world."

He paused, swallowing hard against a particularly painful cramp, and suddenly he remembered something he'd read when he was briefly scanning the plot of the book on Wikipedia. The man on trial had been falsely accused, and his prison sentence and death had been linked by many scholars to the killing of a mockingbird, which made no sense to Shawn whatsoever. What did a mockingbird have to do with a black guy being falsely accused by a bunch of racists?

Wait.

Falsely accused.

"No, you weren't always this obsessed with the book," Shawn slowly backtracked, and the man's eyes widened in surprise at Shawn's sudden change of course. "You enjoyed it, you wrote about it, and you saved your paper to perhaps expand upon later, but during your teaching career, probably within the first few years, you were accused of murder, found guilty, and thrown in jail. And that's when the theme of injustice really caught up to you, and you weren't going to let the people responsible get away with it. You were going to re-write the story to your own purposes, right?

"Man, that's... actually, I'm not sure what that is. This is a first for me, and I've proved that T-Rexes can still murder people from beyond the grave. Kudos for mixing it up, man, but do you realize that by doing this, you're only going to give them an actual reason to lock you up? Sure, 35 years in the system with no chance of parole until 25 is harsh, but if you keep this up, you could wind up spending the rest of your life in there. Hakuna Matata, Aaron, that's all I'm saying."

The man's face was white, his eyes angry and dark. "Get. On. With. It."

Shawn almost shivered under the harsh, threatening gaze but continued fearlessly... well, almost fearlessly, "You never killed anyone, did you? You were falsely accused, just like that Tom Riddle guy in the mockingbird book."

Aaron blinked. "Robinson."

"Sorry?"

"Tom  _Robinson_. Tom Riddle is the bad guy in the  _Harry Potter_ series."

"Ah. Vladimir."

"That's Dracula. It's  _Voldemort_."

"Irrelevant."

Aaron made a soft growl in his throat while the mystery-man at his feet looked on with wide, confused eyes. "Cut the crap," Aaron growled. He calmed a bit. "Impressive insight, Shawn. Can I call you Shawn?"

"I don't know; I normally don't pick up when there's a revenge-seeking maniac on the other line."

Perhaps that was too far. Eyes flashing in rage, Aaron approached the witness stand, stepping up onto the raised platform where Shawn's feet were barely touching the wooden floor. The stand was big enough for both Shawn and the big man to stand/hang, about seven foot by seven foot. He lashed out, landing a solid, rage-filled punch to Shawn's stomach.

Shawn gagged, his feet slipping off their purchase, his body swinging back violently, arms screaming in agony. He tried without success to curl his knees up into the debilitating pain, but he ended up simply swinging on the rope, his entire weight being held up by the rope around his arms. He flailed his legs, trying to get his feet under him again, but it took Stevens grabbing him by the front of his collar and stopping his momentum, nearly strangling his human pendulum in the process, for him to stop and stagger to his tip-toes, trying to relieve every bit of pressure on his poor, abused arms that he could.

Aaron was breathing hard when he brought Shawn to a screeching stop, shoving his face right into Shawn's, his minty breath spewing over his prisoner's face. "Watch your mouth, Psychic," he seethed. "I've tolerated enough of your crap, and it stops now. I lost twenty-five years of my life.  _Twenty-five years!_  I  _will_  enact justice, even if our very own court systems won't!"

He stepped back off the platform and made his way to the shaking old man who was fruitlessly trying to sneak toward the impenetrable door, bringing back a heavily booted foot and slamming it into the man's side. The old man yelled hoarsely beneath the gag as something snapped.

Shawn, pain still raging through his battered body, cried out in protest. "Hey!"

"Do you know who this is, Mr. Spencer?" Stevens glared down venomously at the man at his feet. "Stay," he ordered. He turned back in Shawn's direction. "If you knew who this lowlife was, you wouldn't be so quick to jump to his defense." Shawn waited. "Shawn, let me introduce you to Mr. O'Dell, murderer and scumbag extraordinaire."

 


	6. Heigh-Ho, the Derry-o, the Murder of O'Dell

When Aaron said the name  _O'Dell_ , everything started coming together. At the mention of the name, a conversation Shawn had had with his dad years ago, a conversation that had been lost in the never-ending clutter that was his eidetic memory, was brought back to the surface.

* * *

 _"In this case, I don't believe that he was the 'bad guy,'" Henry responded shortly. "The evidence was circumstantial, the guy's lawyer was crap, the prosecuting lawyer was_ full _of crap, but he sure knew how to work the court to his advantage."_

_"How do you know he was innocent?"_

_"I don't_ know _, Shawn, because the other suspect – Herman O'Dell, who we believe actually did it – is ridiculously rich and powerful, has no real evidence against them, and the defense's lead witness is conveniently dead. But I – not to mention, over half of the guys at the station – feel that the evidence isn't nearly enough to condemn a man to 35 years, parole in 25. But the fact of the matter was that what evidence we had_ was _enough, especially coupled with my testimony–"_

* * *

"Oh," Shawn said, blinking. "Of course. Herman O'Dell. He's super-rich, a businessman, share-owner, tycoon, czar or something."

"There are no czars in America."

"That you know of. I've heard the conspiracy theories."

Aaron gave Shawn a look that made the fake psychic afraid that his babbling and rabbit-trailing was going to earn him another punch to the gut, but the man didn't move and Shawn was relieved.

"Go on."

Shawn continued, "My dad was the lead witness in that case. That's why you're after him. Me. Us."

"The judge was an old coot who died of natural causes before I had completed my first decade in jail," Aaron said bitterly, "and the prosecuting lawyer is practicing halfway across the globe. But if it hadn't been for  _Henry Spencer_ ," he said the name like it tasted vile in his mouth, "their case probably wouldn't have been strong enough to sentence me. He might as well have put me in cuffs and thrown me into the cell himself."

"He thought you were innocent, and so did like half of the police force," Shawn said softly, fighting off another stab of pain. "But there was nothing he could do about it. The court made a ruling. He told what he saw. Nothing more, nothing less. He just did what he had to, and he beat himself up about your sentence for days. He knew that O'Dell was the real killer, but the wrong person was sentenced, and once the case was closed, there was nothing he could do about it, no matter how much he wanted to. It wasn't his fault." Shawn's voice got weaker the longer he spoke. The pain in his head, limbs, and abdomen was making his ears buzz now. Every so often, a dark spot would blink across his vision. He was so dizzy, and the longer he hung there, the worse it got. He thought he might pass out any second.

Aaron didn't seem to notice or care in the slightest that his prisoner's condition seemed to be slowly deteriorating. "No, the fact that your father believed that I was innocent and  _still_  testified against me makes it  _worse_."

"He didn't–" Shawn began, but Aaron angrily strode forward, and Shawn flinched, but the man didn't go for Shawn; this time, he veered toward the crumpled form of O'Dell who had collapsed a few feet in front of him.

"Yes, he did. He told what he saw, or thought he saw, which may of looked suspicious, but he knew the true story, and if he was so sure I didn't do it, he should have fought harder. Said  _anything_  to convince the judge and the jury of the truth." As he was speaking, Aaron shrugged off his backpack from his shoulders and dropped it onto the ground in front of the cowering O'Dell. "And he's going to pay for taking my life away from me.

"He beat himself up for  _days_  about it, did he? I wasn't built for prison. I was beaten up for  _years_ , physically abused, before I finally became stronger and accustomed to the environment. Federal prison is a world within itself, Shawn, a war-zone, and I can't expect you to understand what it was like. I went in weak and under the delusion that I'd be safe because I didn't do anything to deserve being there. It took me  _years_  to get to where I am now. But when I left the system, I commanded respect and fear from the most fearsome of lowlifes. And now, I am going to make your father pay, make him respect and fear  _me_."

"By killing me?" Shawn asked. "Come on, you're above that, man."

"Am I?" Aaron said darkly. "It's poetic, really. Not simple revenge at all. Poetic justice. You see, I gained way more material for my research about Harper Lee's masterpiece in prison than I could have imagined through my incarceration. And I realized something profound. The symbolism of killing a mockingbird – of taking the life of hurting or destroying something harmless – is the story of me. The story of your father. And, because I'm re-writing the story for myself, my way, it's the story of you now, too. And your part is _far_  from over."

Shawn didn't like the sound of that.

Aaron unzipped the backpack and pulled out a shiny black pistol. Shawn's heart hammered in his chest. The guy had been terrifying enough  _without_ a weapon, but now...

O'Dell whimpered pathetically behind his gag from his place on the floor. Even though Shawn now knew that the old man was a sleazy murderer and thief – some of the stories he'd heard throughout the years about the things this rich tycoon had gotten away with filtered through his mind, resurfacing from his memories after all this time, and they weren't pretty – he still felt pity for the guy. He was kind of sad, really, and it was almost hard to believe that the sniveling captive cowering at the feet of Aaron Stevens was a cold-blooded killer himself... almost.

"Come on, man, think about this," Shawn pleaded.

Aaron shook his head. "I don't think you understand, Shawn. Your father killed a mockingbird when he got me sent to prison because of his testimony. I was Tom Robinson, the innocent man caught in the crossfire. The court system, your father, was Bob Ewell and his slut daughter. But thanks to Detective Spencer and his enlightening testimony, the tides have turned. The roles have changed. I'm the new Ewell, and your father's playing the role of Finch. He made me into what I am today. And I'm killing a mockingbird, Shawn.  _You're_ my mockingbird, just like Jem and Scout were Ewell's, just like I was your father's."

"You do realize I've never even cracked the cover of this book," Shawn said dryly, trying not to think about the awful implications of Aaron's crazed speech.

"Doesn't matter. For all intents and purposes, you're in it now. You'll find out what happens soon enough."

He pointed the gun at O'Dell's head. The man stilled, eyes wide and terrified.

"Come on, Aaron. I know you're angry. Who wouldn't be? But no matter what this guy's done, you can't just kill him in cold blood."

"I'm not going to," said Aaron. O'Dell looked up, a tiny ray of hope in his miserable eyes.

"You're not?" Shawn asked shakily. His vision was dancing; he was light-headed.

"Nope. You are."

"What?"

_Boom!_

The gun went off with a resounding crack, and O'Dell flopped bonelessly to the floor, a perfect round hole in the center of his forehead. Dead before he hit the ground.

Shawn surged against his bonds instinctively, yelling his protests at having seen a man, no matter how awful of a man, murdered right in front of him. But the deed was done, and the struggling and shouting only made things worse for Shawn and his dizziness and pain.

"You may not have pulled the trigger, Shawn, but in the eyes of the law, you will have killed this pathetic bastard. Your fingerprints are going to be on the weapon. His blood will be on your hands. All circumstantial evidence will point to you."

Shawn was confused. "So... what? You're going to try to get  _me_ thrown in jail?"

"No, we're having our own private court session," Aaron said ominously, and he gestured around the room. "You didn't think I went through all this trouble making my building into a courtroom for nothing, did you? When your father joins us, he's going to be the jury. I'm going to be the judge. You're going to be the accused. And your father is going to condemn you based on the evidence, and then I will sentence you and carry out that sentence while your father watches on, helpless. It's the perfect plan. Poetic justice."

He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a rag. He wiped the gun down thoroughly, then went back over to Shawn on the platform. As tall as he was, he actually had to stand on his tiptoes to reach Shawn's hands suspended above him. Shawn tried to struggle, but he barely even felt it when the lunatic pressed the gun into his right hand. That couldn't be a good sign. The man then placed the gun on the judge's podium and went back over to O'Dell, dabbing at the surprisingly small amount of blood that had pooled around the hole in his head with the cloth he'd used to hold the gun.

Aaron went back over to Shawn, who felt distinctly ill as the man's blood was smeared on his hand. "Please," Shawn said, his pride finally receding somewhat behind his desperation to live. He knew without a doubt that if this loony went through with his plan, he wasn't going to make it through.

The giant of a man didn't respond, only walked back to the judge's podium and picked up the large metal gavel that Shawn had confusedly noted in his earlier scan of the room. His stomach twisted as Aaron smiled and approached Shawn at the 'witness stand.' "Okay, Baby Bird," he said, "I've got a promise to keep to Mr. Finch."

Shawn looked warily at the gavel clutched tightly in Aaron's white-knuckled fist. He'd withdrawn a cheap, pre-paid, thereby disposable and untraceable, cell phone from his pocket with his other hand. Black and white spots flitted across Shawn's vision as he watched. He found himself actually  _wanting_  to pass out, because whatever Aaron had in mind for him was not going to be pleasant.

"I think I'm going to enjoy this," Aaron stated.

"You're crazy, you know that, right?" Shawn snapped, realizing before the words left his mouth that he should have swallowed them instead of letting them go.

Aaron's eyes flashed dangerously. "And your incessant rudeness and big mouth are exactly the reasons why," he growled.

He flipped open the cell phone and quickly dialed a number. "Not a word until I give you permission, and even then, you don't breathe a word of who I am. I want it to be a surprise," Aaron hissed as his finger hovered over the SEND button. "I may not be done with you yet, but I will have absolutely no qualms about shooting you in your kneecaps." Shawn swallowed hard.

Aaron hit the button.

Shawn could hear the phone ringing on the other end. He had a very bad feeling that he knew who was going to be on the other line.

His suspicions were confirmed when he heard a gruff, tired voice answer on the other end, and Aaron was close enough that Shawn could hear everything his father said (but it was most likely more to do with the fact that most of his dad's "talking" was "yelling").

"What?" snapped Henry Spencer's voice.

"Henry, Henry, Henry," Aaron simpered. "Quite the temper, I see."

A beat. "Who is this? Where's my son?"

"Still haven't figured it out yet, old man? Getting soft in your old age, huh? Pity. Your idiot son has already got it all figured out."

Henry snapped, his voice so loud that it almost made Shawn jump in surprise. "WHAT THE  _HELL_  HAVE YOU DONE TO SHAWN?! I swear, if you've hurt one hair on his head—"

"Temper, Henry," Aaron said dryly.

"Don't you  _dare_ —"

"If you want to talk to your boy, you need to calm down, Henry. Shawn's under enough stress as it is. He doesn't need you giving him anything else to worry about. Trust me."

Shawn could almost feel his father's anger waves bleeding through the phone's speaker, but Henry managed to say, in a much softer but no less angry tone, "Let me talk to him."

"Sure thing," Aaron said agreeably, malice easily detectable in his voice. "I'm going to put you on speaker phone." He hit the button and sat the phone on the platform near Shawn's feet, then stepped back slightly to observe.

"Shawn? Shawn, are you all right? Talk to me, son!"

His dad's voice, no longer angry, but just worried and nearly desperate, just about brought tears to Shawn's eyes. "Dad," he slurred, his head throbbing in time with his heart. He didn't even know how he'd managed to stay alert this long, but his head injury and strain from his position were really taking a toll on him. Everything was spinning.

"Shawn. How are you? Are you hurt?"

Shawn lied, "Nah. You know me. Tough as nails." The statement was belittled by a stifled gasp of pain as his shoulders once again violently protested their brutal treatment. Shawn wondered distantly if his arms would be several inches longer if he ever got out of this. He'd be like that stretchy kid from  _Willy Wonka_.

Shawn closed his eyes and let his dad's anxious voice wash over him. "I assume you can't tell me who abducted you?"

Shawn gave a weak chuckle, still keeping his eyes closed. His swimming vision had really been making him dizzy. His head hurt. "My kneecaps say no, I can't."

Henry was obviously confused. "We're gonna find you kid," he assured his son. "We're not going to stop 'til you're back home. Just hang in there, Shawn."

Shawn actually laughed loudly this time, despite the fact that the action hurt his aching gut and ribs, the irony striking him as more hilarious than it probably should have. "On it, Pops." He sucked in a deep breath before speaking again. It was getting harder and harder to breathe in this position, and nearly impossible to hold his head up. "You at the Psych office?" He didn't really care where his father was at this point, other than on his trail, but he thought he sounded woozy and incoherent enough that he could slip in a clue without drawing too much suspicion from Aaron. If Mrs. Moore had gone by the Psych office like she'd promised and hopefully left the paper, or even a note or message for Shawn, then they might be a step closer to finding him.

Before Henry could answer, Aaron, who had been standing quietly to the side during the exchange, now spoke up. Shawn's eyes snapped open at the sudden change of pace. "Okay, that's enough catch-up. Henry, I have a promise to keep. I assume you got my poem?"

 _Poem?_  Shawn had no idea what Aaron was talking about, but when his dad responded, his voice was deadly quiet, dead serious. "Leave him alone, you bastard! Whoever you are, whatever I put you away for, your problem is with  _me_ , not my son!"

Whatever this promise was, it couldn't be good, Shawn decided.

"This is your doing, Henry," said Aaron. The blood drained out of Shawn's face as he watched the man grip the gavel – it was more of a giant hammer or a mallet, really, now that Shawn thought about it – with both hands and hold it back over his shoulder like he was getting ready to hit a home run.

Shawn struggled weakly and vainly, only managing to send more pain slicing through his arms and shoulders. "No," he said hoarsely.  _Just pass out, pass out..._

But even though his body had been threatening to send him into unconsciousness for what seemed like hours, now blissful unawareness wasn't coming and he was forced to face this head-on. He tried one more time to dissuade his increasingly violent captor, desperation and pain clouding his better senses. "Aaron, man, you're better than this."

"Leave him  _alone_ _!_ " Henry roared again.

"I told you," Aaron growled at Shawn, who suddenly realized his terrible mistake in calling his kidnapper by name. "No names." He swung the gavel back even further, then let loose with all of his strength. Shawn clenched his eyes shut a second before the mallet hit. Moments later, his world fell apart as the heavy metal slammed violently into his left forearm. He screamed, and the sound was more animal than human. Bones snapped, something sharp pierced his skin, and all-consuming pain filled every inch of his body, setting his nerve endings on fire, and his arm was the central hub.

He pitched forward, no longer able to hold up his broken arm, and all of his weight was suddenly on his right arm with his left one slumping limply in its bonds. If he had been coherent enough, he would have felt his right shoulder joint giving just a bit at the sudden added weight as his feet lost their purchase on the platform and he hung there. The rope around his left wrist had given a bit with the hit, which was actually a good thing – if the rope had stayed taut, his broken limb would be stretched grotesquely beyond its limits as well, not that all the weight on one dislocated shoulder was that much better, and at the moment, Shawn could care less that he'd been spared a bit (or even a lot) more pain; he didn't think there was such a thing as more pain than this, anyway. He'd never,  _ever_  hurt this badly in his entire existence. Ever.

He tried to contain his agony, but he was in a world all of its own, populated only by fire, fury, and debilitating, unadulterated  _painpainpain_. The gavel hit once again, this time on his upper arm, near his shoulder, and again he screamed, voice hoarse, and something else in his arm cracked. He was completely oblivious to the sound of his father's yelling through the speaker phone. One more swing, this time to his right knee, and with a deafening crack and the most potent, concentrated blast of pain he'd felt yet, his world went startling white before thrusting him suddenly and thankfully into darkness.

 


	7. Sleepless in Santa Barbara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for "Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark" in this chapter. Thanks for the kudos, bookmarks and the comment!

It was getting close to 8:30 when Henry got back to the police station. He and Gus had been tagging along with Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter, who had immediately started working on the case as they searched for any clue of where Shawn had been taken or of who could have taken him. But no one had been near his place when he'd been abducted so there were no witnesses, the guy had obviously worn gloves, so there were no fingerprints other than Shawn's, and Henry, try as he might, couldn't think of anyone he'd arrested who had a grudge against him and had a weird obsession with  _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , or even literature in general.

The chief had placed some calls to detention facilities where felons arrested by Henry had been released or paroled in the past several years, but to no avail. Most of the people Henry had put in jail were still there (a life sentence, or two, or three, could do that to a person), and the few who had gotten out had been successfully rehabilitated and were now considered functional and productive members of society (there were very few of those).

He had no idea who was doing this, and it was driving him crazy. He would have been frustrated even if his son hadn't been in the clutches of this bird-killing psychopath, but since Shawn had been taken, he was furious. More focused than ever. But there really was nothing to focus  _on_ , since this guy was obviously an expert in covering his tracks.

They kept the crime scene tape up at Mimi's Fluff-n-Fold and went to the Psych office, hoping that there might be some kind of clue there, but again, nothing.

Finally, after going over to the dry cleaner's one more time, they'd gone back to the police station, only to find that the handwriting analysts were having no luck with getting any clues from the poem, and there had been no fingerprints left on Henry's mailbox or the envelope, pictures and notes that had been placed inside. They also learned that Woody had rather gleefully conducted a mini-autopsy on the two mockingbirds and discovered that they had been handled delicately up until they had been strangled, and they'd been killed in a way that would have been instant and painless. Unfortunately, that didn't provide them with any viable information, either.

They would keep working, of course, but it looked like they were just going to have to wait for the kidnapper to make contact with further instructions. This irritated Henry to no end. This was his son out there, for crying out loud! There couldn't just be  _nothing_  to go on!

Henry now said as much to the chief and detectives (and a rather frightened looking Buzz McNab), and Lassiter snapped back irritably, "You know as well as I do, Spencer, that we can't just pull leads out of our asses! We're doing our best, but you need to back off and let us work."

Henry was about to growl something back in response when he caught sight of Detective O'Hara, who looked seconds from bursting into tears, and he managed to regain control of himself and simply walk away from the grumpy head detective. He knew that if he kept arguing with Lassiter that in the emotional state he was in right now, he'd probably start throwing punches at the detective for his waspish responses and his demeanor in general. He wasn't in the mood to deal with any smart-assery right now, and the head detective simply exuded it, especially when he was stressed.

Karen gave him a tight smile and said, "I don't like this situation any more than you do, Henry, but there's nothing else we can do right now, except keep on alert. This guy is good, unfortunately, and we're going to have to play along until we find a lead or he slips up." Henry knew this, obviously, but it was getting harder and harder to keep a clear head and treat this like any other case. How could he pretend that this was another victim, when it was his  _son_? This was even worse than the fear and anxiety during the ice cream truck fiasco; Shawn was being targeted by someone angry at  _Henry_ , and if there was one thing that went along hand-in-hand with revenge, it was violence. He wouldn't admit it, but he was  _terrified_ for Shawn.

He kept seeing his son's face, hearing his voice after Lassiter had pulled him off of the hood of the car. Henry had reached for him, finally reunited with his son, and Shawn had been trembling, worn, exhausted, clutching his bloody, duct-taped shoulder. He'd simply said, "Dad," and the relief in his voice smothered the pain and the fear. Shawn had depended on him. Shawn had been glad to see him. Shawn had trusted him to get him out of his situation, because Henry was his father, and that's what fathers  _did_ : They protected their children, no matter how dysfunctional their relationship might seem at times.

But how could he protect Shawn, how could he rescue Shawn, if he didn't have the first idea of where to look or how to start? He was stumbling around blindly in the dark, hands outstretched, hoping beyond hope that his fingertips would brush against something, anything, that would help him find Shawn. So far he'd grasped nothing but air, and he was helpless.

He'd beaten himself up for a long time after he'd found out that Shawn had been in the gas station all along, and that he and Detective Lassiter had spoken to the kidnapper, while Shawn had watched them out the window, unable to move or speak or call out, and had been forced to watch as his rescue walked away, leaving him in the hands of his tormentors. As his  _father_  walked away.

Shawn had told him not to worry about it; it wasn't his fault, but there'd been a lingering fear in his eyes that had only made Henry feel worse about himself, his fault or not.

How much worse this was, knowing that Shawn had been taken  _because_ of him, and he had no leads, and while he was just sitting around, twiddling his thumbs, Shawn could be going through only God knows what.

Gus joined the conversation then, thankfully pulling him out of his dark thoughts, reminding him gently but surprisingly firmly (Gus was a bit of a wimp) that Shawn wasn't only important just to him, but to everyone else too. Lassiter grunted non-committally and stalked away at this, but Henry had managed to get his emotions and anger relatively in check by this point, something that he was almost always good at doing, except, it seemed, when someone he cared about was in grave danger. It was then Henry remembered that Shawn and Gus had been best friends practically forever, and Gus was probably having as difficult of a time as Henry himself was – almost.

And  _then_  he realized he hadn't called Maddie. He decided not to – not yet – until he had more information. He couldn't make that phone call, not now.

He hung around the station, helping out wherever he could, barking orders to the bewildered and skittish officers helping on the case, and generally just driving everyone, even the normally long-suffering Karen Vick, just a little bit crazy. They finally, several hours later, managed to convince Henry to do the impossible and go home to get some sleep and eat something, with the promise that if anything changed, he'd be the first to know. He only agreed because the chief had all but threatened to have him arrested for harassing her officers and interfering in a police investigation.

This was around 11:45. About four sleepless hours later, Henry's cell phone rang from on his nightstand, and he didn't recognize the number.

"What?" he snapped, both hoping and fearing that it was the kidnapper.

The voice that responded sounded vaguely familiar, but Henry couldn't put his finger on who it belonged to. Whoever it was was rude and patronizing, and he made it obvious pretty early on in the conversation that yes, he had Shawn, and yes, he was looking for revenge, but he hadn't let on anything about his son's condition.

"Henry, Henry, Henry," the voice said in a patronizing tone. "Quite the temper, I see."

Henry seethed in anger at the sickly-sweet sound of the kidnapper's voice. Mind spinning, heart pounding, Henry demanded, "Who is this? Where's my son?"

"Still haven't figured it out yet, old man?" the voice taunted. "Getting soft in your old age, huh? Pity. Your idiot son has already got it all figured out."

Something inside of Henry snapped, but not at the insult to himself, but just the man mentioning Shawn, confirming that he had taken him, and being so casual, so pleased about it. "WHAT THE  _HELL_ HAVE YOU DONE TO SHAWN?" he roared. "I swear, if you've hurt one hair on his head–"

The smugness was almost palpable in the man's response. "Temper, Henry."

"Don't you  _dare_ –"

The next thing the man said sent chills down Henry's spine, causing his blood to run cold. "If you want to talk to your boy, you need to calm down, Henry. Shawn's under enough stress as it is. He doesn't need you giving him anything else to worry about. Trust me."

Feeling sick, helpless, and more enraged than he could ever recall being, wishing more than anything that he could take Shawn's place, knowing that he would give himself up in a heartbeat if it kept his son safe, if it saved him from even the tiniest bit of pain, he had to force himself not to yell as he said, "Let me talk to him."

"Sure thing," said the kidnapper, too eagerly, but Henry was too anxious to talk to his son to care at the moment.

He immediately stopped threatening the man on the other end and spoke to his son, desperate to hear his voice, to know that he was alive. "Shawn?" he asked, and when Shawn didn't immediately respond, an unprecedented wave of panic started to build up inside of him and he forced himself to be calm as he repeated, "Shawn, are you all right?"

Shawn's voice was slurred when he finally responded, but otherwise he seemed coherent enough. Fear fluttered in Henry's chest at the sound of his son's voice, and the unsettling sense of deja vu that accompanied the weary, "Dad."

Henry asked if Shawn was hurt, although judging by the state of his apartment, he had sustained at least a few injuries, but Henry had no idea the extent of said injuries or if he'd been hurt more since he'd been taken.

His son was obviously lying when he responded, still in that weak, strained voice, "Nah. You know me. Tough as nails." His ridiculous answer was immediately discredited by a gasp of pain.

Anger flared up in him at the sound of Shawn's pain, but he managed (barely) to contain his temper, knowing the kidnapper was listening in, and not wanting to do anything to cause him to hurt Shawn more. Instead, he asked a question that he already knew the answer to. "I assume you can't tell me who abducted you?"

Shawn's response was disconcerting and didn't make sense, but it didn't make sense in a way that was much more ominous than the faux psychic's usual nonsense. "My kneecaps say no, I can't."

At a loss of what else to say, feeling utterly useless, he tried to reassure Shawn. "We're going to find you, kid. We're not going to stop 'til you're back home." He meant every word; it wasn't just a reassurance, it was a promise. "Just hang in there, Shawn."

Shawn seemed to find this extremely funny, as he burst into laughter. "On it, Pops," he chortled. Henry deduced with searing rage that the kidnapper had Shawn strung up somewhere. When Shawn spoke again, his voice was even weaker than before. "You at the Psych office?"

Why was Shawn asking about that? Henry thought back, for what seemed like the fiftieth time since Shawn had gone missing, to when Shawn had been kidnapped by that Garth Longmore character – he'd managed to covertly leave critical clues with Detective O'Hara. The question about whether he was at the office seemed out of place, and Henry realized that Shawn might be hinting that there was a clue there. They'd searched his place shortly after discovering Shawn was missing, of course, and they hadn't found anything, but that had been hours earlier. With Shawn's words, Henry knew that he would have to check it out again, just in case.

He was thrust out of his musings abruptly when suddenly, it wasn't Shawn speaking anymore, but the kidnapper. "Okay, that's enough catch-up. Henry, I have a promise to keep. I assume you got my poem?"

The line  _His wing will break but still he'll sing melodies of misery_ had been doing cartwheels through his head all day, and with a deadly calm voice, he told the kidnapper to leave Shawn alone, that it was  _him_  he had a grudge against.

But the man simply said, "This is your doing, Henry."

There was silence in the background. Blood pounded in Henry's ears as he waited, terrified. Then he heard, barely audible, Shawn's voice. He wasn't speaking to Henry; he was addressing his captor. "No..." He was scared. Henry realized he was clenching the hand not holding the phone so hard that his fingernails were drawing blood from his palm. What was that maniac doing to his son? "Aaron, man, you're better than this."

Aaron. At least he had a name to go on.

And Aaron was about to hurt his son. "Leave him  _alone_!" Henry shouted into the phone.

"I told you," said the madman named Aaron, but he didn't seem to be talking to Henry. "No names."

_Oh, no..._

If Shawn had broken a rule, it meant consequences. Henry wished that Shawn hadn't said the name, even if it did end up helping in the investigation in the long run.

More silence for a few moments. And then–

The most agonized scream Henry had ever heard from a human being. He jerked the phone away from his ear, horrified. The scream was long and sustained, and ended with a heartbreaking sob. For a second, Henry was too shocked to say anything. He'd never been this scared before. Ever.

Another scream ripped through the speaker, this one hoarse, desperate, tortured.

"STOP!" Henry yelled, losing all semblance of control at the sickening sounds of his son's suffering. "STOP!"

One more scream, this one weaker but no less terrible. A whimper.

Silence.

"Shawn?" Henry ventured, his voice shaking uncontrollably. What the hell was this monster doing to his child?

"Sorry, Shawn's... indisposed... at the moment," came the biting voice. "You'll have to settle for me right now."

"You son of a–"

"Language, Henry."

Henry gripped his phone tightly, almost as if by strangling it, he was strangling the person on the other line.

"Here's what's going to happen, Henry," the kidnapper called Aaron said icily. Henry strained his ears for any sound from his son in the background, desperately needing to confirm that he was still alive, but he heard nothing. "You're going to stay on the phone with me. You're going to go outside, and if you see anyone, you will not alert them to your situation, or try to call attention to yourself. If you do, Shawn will lose a finger." Bile started to push its way up Henry's esophagus. "You're going to get into your truck, and drive where I tell you. You are not to disconnect this call during your journey; I will know if you try to contact any of your police buddies. If you try something anyway, Shawn loses two fingers. When you get where I tell you, don't hang up, but leave your phone in the truck. Get out, put your hands on the truck, and don't move.

"Are we clear?"

Henry bristled. "Crystal." While the man had been giving his orders, however, Henry had grabbed the small notebook he kept on his dresser, the pen in his nightstand drawer, and had scribbled a quick, frantic note. He knew he was taking a chance, but he knew if he didn't, then the police would still have absolutely no leads and he and Shawn would have little to no chance of rescue or reinforcements.

"Now, are you dressed and ready to go?" Aaron spoke to Henry as if he were a small child getting himself ready for his first day of school.

"Yes," Henry growled.

"Go out the front door and get into your truck. And remember, if our call is disconnected for any reason, I'm cutting off a finger." Darkly, the man added, "Better hope your battery is charged."

World crashing down around his ears, Henry hurried down the stairs, to the porch. He left the door unlocked. The note he quickly tucked under the welcome mat, one corner sticking out. He hoped he wasn't being watched, but he didn't think he was. That's what the perpetual phone call was for – to keep tabs on him. This meant that the kidnapper was probably working alone and didn't have the extra hands or muscle to do his dirty work for him.

In one way, it was good, because it meant that they were only dealing with one man. But on the other hand, it was not good at all, because it meant they were dealing with one man who was  _very_  good – too good – at what he did.

Henry made his way to his truck, opened the door and got in. As soon as the door slammed shut, the kidnapper ordered, "Start the truck." He did. "Now drive to the end of your street and turn left. I'll tell you where to go from there."

Henry backed out of the driveway, hoping fervently that someone would stop by his house soon and find the message, because if not, he had a terrible feeling that neither he nor his son would be getting out of this one on their own.

* * *

Gus tried calling Henry at six in the morning to see if he'd heard anything new. He realized it was early, but he also knew that his friend's father hadn't slept a wink. He knew this because he himself also hadn't slept.

There was no answer. The phone kept ringing until the voicemail picked it up. Gus frowned, not bothering to leave a message. Henry was almost religious about answering his phone when his son _wasn't_  missing, but with the current situation, Gus knew that he wouldn't dare miss a call in the event that it could be news about Shawn.

Warning bells went off in Gus's head, but he hung up and tried again.

Voicemail again. And was it just Gus, or did voicemail-Henry sound even angrier on the second try?

Gus quickly went back to his contacts, found Lassie's number, and called.

The detective answered before the second ring.

"Lassiter."

"Lassiter, I think something's wrong."

"No dip, Sherlock," the detective snapped irritably. From the sound of it, he'd been working all night and hadn't slept either. In fact, it seemed like the whole of the Santa Barbara Police Department was Sleepless in Santa Barbara as they worked to turn over any lead that might point them in the direction of their missing psychic. Shawn might not have been a cop, but over the years, he'd wormed his way into the hearts of many at the station, and he was as good as one of them in their eyes.

Yes, he drove them bananas, and yes, they sometimes wanted him to disappear. But not like this. Everyone wanted Shawn found and returned, safe and sound. Even Lassiter.

This was personal.

Gus rolled his eyes. "Seriously. I tried calling Mr. Spencer, twice, but he didn't answer. There's no way he'd not answer unless something was wrong."

Gus fully expected Lassiter to tell him that he was being paranoid, to stop it and go back to sleep. Instead, after a long pause, he said, "I'll call O'Hara and we'll head to his house, check things out."

Relieved, Gus said, "I'll meet you there."

"No, Guster. Stay put. We don't need to put another civilian at risk." It was a stupid argument, considering all of the dangerous non-civilian exploits Shawn and Gus had tagged along on over the years.

"Civilian or not, Shawn's my best friend, and I'll do whatever it takes to find him. I'll meet you at Mr. Spencer's house."

He hung up, probably leaving an indignant Lassiter fuming on the other line.

Gus didn't care one bit.  _  
_

He grabbed his keys, rushed out to his Echo, and sped off in the direction of his best friend's dad's house.

* * *

Henry's truck wasn't in the driveway, but there was a very angry looking raccoon in a cage in front of the porch, and everyone gave it a wide berth, not quite sure what the deal was with the hissing, snarling masked captive. Lassiter said he'd have McNab call animal control about it when he saw him.

Juliet and her partner had arrived at the elder Spencer's house just a few moments after Gus had, making it clear that he wasn't about to back down and wait in the car. Honestly, Juliet didn't blame him. She herself was worried sick about Shawn, although she managed to hide it better. A little better.

She still wasn't entirely sure how to act around Shawn, despite their resolution not to feel weird around each other. But Juliet knew that she still had feelings for the psychic. But Shawn was with Abigail (sort of), and even though Abigail was in Uganda, it was still awkward for Juliet.

Now she'd give just about anything for that awkwardness, if only she could have Shawn back safely again.

Juliet had read  _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , and as horrible of a character as Bob Ewell was, she knew that any real person who took their inspiration from the twisted man who had tried to kill a man's young children for revenge would be much worse.

Not too long ago, Juliet had thought that most of the time, the world of fiction was darker than real life. But more and more she was realizing that some stories were tame in comparison to reality. And this was no exception.

No matter how confused the detective was about her feelings for Shawn, she wanted him safe. She was terrified about what could be happening to him. What had already happened to him. But she kept that terror safely contained behind her professional mask.

Lassiter glanced her way, put a hand on her shoulder briefly, and said, "Come on, Detective. Personal feelings will only get in the way of the investigation."

Well, maybe she wasn't containing it quite so well. She nodded stiffly and pushed back her worry. Worry wasn't going to help Shawn. It was only going to impede her investigation, and that would only hurt him in the long run.

She and Lassiter led the way to the house, making Gus stay a good distance behind them, just in case. She hadn't ever seen him this anxious before, not even after she and Lassiter had met him in the middle of the night to find that Shawn had been shot and kidnapped.

Guns drawn, they made their way up the steps to the front porch. Lassiter knocked. "Henry?" Nothing stirred. Lassiter stepped onto the welcome mat, tried the door.

Unlocked.

"He doesn't leave his door unlocked unless he's in the house," Gus said. "Do you think he was taken, too?"

Lassiter glanced back at the driveway. "Not likely. Looks like he left on his own. But something's still not right."

He stepped off of the mat, frowning.

Something crinkled under his feet.

He stooped down. Juliet and Gus looked over his shoulder as he tugged at a corner of a wrinkled piece of paper that had been put under the mat. He unfolded it, read it, and then handed it grimly to Juliet, his mouth set in a straight line.

 _Ewell_ –  _Aaron_ –  _called for meet_ –  _trap. No contact. Check Psych._

"Looks like Henry left on his own, but not of his own free will," Juliet observed, gut clenching in worry.

"This wack-job's plan is coming to a crescendo," Lassiter agreed. "If you are right about the book theory, and this is all about getting vengeance on Henry..." He let the sentence hang, but they all knew that this did not bode well for Shawn at all. They didn't have long.

"Looks like he was at least able to get a first name from the guy," Juliet said. "Not sure how much just 'Aaron' is going to help us, but at least it's something."

"He wants us to check the Psych office," Gus said, sounding confused. "But we looked yesterday afternoon."

"Then we look again. Something must have changed," Lassiter replied shortly.

Juliet nodded her agreement, worrying her bottom lip. "Let's hope whatever it is is enough to point us in the right direction," she said softly. "Otherwise, we're at a dead end."

 


	8. Getting Vengeance 101: Rubric for Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or To Kill a Mockingbird.
> 
> Warning: some gore in this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading, kudos, and reviews!
> 
> If you want more father-son bonding, Shawn whump and hurt/comfort, check out my newest one-shot, "No More Spencers Jumping on the Bed!" It's an AU episode tag to "Shawn and Gus Truck Things Up" - with much more h/c, angst, and whump! :D
> 
> Enjoy, and PLEASE review! :)

Gus used his key to unlock the office. Lassie and Juliet were behind him, guns at the ready. Gus tried not to think about what they could be risking if they were being watched and the bad guy thought Henry had involved the cops. He kept telling himself that they had no choice, that Henry had told them to check Psych for a reason, and that they had to take the risk.

Chief Vick had been informed of their predicament via a text message from Juliet, and her quick response and been,  _Be prepared, discreet. Let me know ASAP. Go from there._

The first thing he thought upon opening the door was that the Psych office looked exactly the same as it had yesterday evening. What had he expected? For Shawn to escape, plant a clue, and then jump back to his abductor before the bad guy even knew he was gone?

He flicked on the light switch, stepped in, and something crinkled under his foot.

"This wasn't here before," he said, stooping down to pick up the manila envelope that had been slid under the door.

"Mind getting out of the doorway, Guster? We're trying to be discreet here," Lassiter griped from outside. Gus quickly stepped in and then closed the door quietly after the two detectives had filed inside.

"Someone dropped this off," he said.

"The kidnapper?" Juliet guessed.

"No, Mr. Spencer said that Shawn hinted at it. Somehow he knew it was coming. It's a clue."

"Open it."

Gus grabbed a letter-opener from his desk, quickly sliced his ay into the large yellow envelope, and pulled out a stack of papers about fifteen to twenty pages thick. On top was a hastily handwritten note on a scrap of college-ruled paper:

_Shawn,_

_Must have just missed you. Here is the paper you asked about. Hope you enjoy. Let me know if there's anything else you need._

_Sincerely,_

_Mrs. Jada Moore_

"Who's Mrs. Jada Moore?" Juliet asked. Gus assumed it was a rhetorical question, but to his surprise, Lassiter answered.

"She's the head librarian at Santa Barbara Public Library. I'm a card-holder," he explained when the other two shot him surprised looks.

"Me too, but I don't know the librarians' names by heart," Juliet pointed out.

"I try to time my visits for when the fine red-head's working the desk," Gus informed them, flicking his nose with his thumb.

"She's Victoria's aunt," Lassiter explained. "The only one in that whole family who actually liked me."

"Ah," Gus and Juliet intoned. Everyone knew that his ex-wife was still a bit of a sore subject for the head detective.

"Shawn actually went to the library without my forcing him," Gus realized, astounded. "Whoa." He set the note aside and looked at the next page, which was typed, Times New Roman, twelve-point, doubled spaced, and had a header that Gus would know all too well. "It's a research paper."

"Let me see that," Lassiter said, snatching the stack of papers so quickly that Gus got multiple paper cuts.

"Ow!" Gus said, then moved in to look around Lassie's shoulders. The name on the top of the header was blacked out with permanent marker, perhaps for confidentiality's sake. As Lassiter quickly thumbed through the rest of the paper, Gus noticed that the librarian had neglected to mark out the last name on the top right of each page, however. Bless her forgetful old soul.

"This was written by someone named Stephens, 1981. Title:  _Revenge and Hate: Ewell's Slaughter of a Mockingbird._  What is this crap?"

"This  _crap_ ," Gus said testily, "is literary research on the greatest classic American novel ever written. But it looks like it's all about hate and revenge, which is not what most people focus on." He grabbed the paper back, much to Lassiter's annoyance, and started shuffling through the pages and skimming over their contents.

 _In Harper Lee's_ To Kill a Mockingbird _, there are many well-depicted and relevant themes, including racism, rape, and loss of innocence, and while many scholars focus on these and other prominent aspects, few have expanded on one of the less-subtle but incredibly important themes: Revenge._

Gus skimmed over a few more paragraphs, Lassiter and Juliet peering over either shoulder.

_While Tom Robinson's arrest and death is equated with the killing of a mockingbird (Hill 41), or the destruction of something innocent, and while Sheriff Taylor's sparing Boo Radley from the public's eye was the counter idea to Robinson's situation, Bob Ewell's thirst for revenge and his enacting of that revenge by attacking his adversary's innocent children is also killing a mockingbird (Roday 65)._

Gus flipped through a few pages, reading intently now as the author of the paper expanded upon his theories, talking about Ewell's attack on the children and its significance not only in the novel, but its application to the real world as well.

 _Atticus knew that Ewell was angry with him, but he was convinced that the man would come after and confront_ him _. He was both shocked and heartbroken when the villain went after his children instead. "This is the most serious of retributions, and Ewell knew that he would hurt Attics more through his children than if he were to hurt Atticus himself," Lawson states. This is a method that has been used in wars and disputes throughout the years, weakening your enemy by taking out someone or something they love most._

_But what kind of person would stoop this low? Or is it stooping? "In Ewell's eyes, he was doing what he had to do. He had been humiliated in front of his entire town. Secrets that he never wanted exposed were out in the open. And how does he act? Out of desperation. Spite, yes, but he was driven to that point" (Omundson 131)._

"Shawn had it all figured out," Gus said. "He knew early on that someone was targeting him because of something his dad had done." He flipped past the two-page bibliography and back to the second page, looking once again at the name of the author at the top left corner.

Coupled with what Mr. Spencer said in his note, I'd say that our kidnapper is Aaron Stevens," Juliet said. She pursed her lips.

"Looks like Spencer was really onto something," Lassiter admitted begrudgingly, but Gus thought he could hear a bit of respect in his gruff voice. "Too bad he didn't feel the need to share what he'd learned with the rest of the class."

Gus glared over his shoulder at the older man. "Well, he finally decided to share," Gus defended his best friend. "He was telling me in that roundabout way of his when he got taken."

No one had anything to say to that.

"I'm going to call the chief," Lassiter finally stated. "Ask her to have someone run a search on this Aaron Stevens."

"And then what?" Gus asked anxiously, wanting to do something – anything – to help his best friend.

Lassiter's response wasn't encouraging. "Then... we wait."

* * *

Someone had tried to call him twice. Henry had ignored the beeping on the other line alerting him to this fact, listening instead to the breathing of his son's tormentor, and the man's various driving instructions. Otherwise, he remained silent.

Henry still hadn't heard anything else from Shawn, and any inquiries about his son were met with stony silence.

One good thing about the long drive was that Henry had plenty of time to think. He put some things together, began to really focus on the bigger picture, realizing that it might not be someone he'd directly put in jail. Maybe someone "innocent," looking for revenge.

Like the innocent man thrown in jail and killed in that book this guy seemed so hell-bent on copying. Henry was inclined to think that whoever this kidnapper was, he'd lost at least a few of his marbles in prison.

He ended up pulling into an old abandoned truck stop, half burned down and so far from the main road that Henry never would have found it if it hadn't been for Aaron's directions. He did as he was told and parked, leaving the phone on and in the cab of the truck. He stepped out, placed his hands on the side of the vehicle, and waited.

He was weighing his options and wondering if he should try to jump the guy when he came for him, attempt to subdue him, and then force him to take him to his son (he decided pretty quickly that it was far too risky), when a hood was shoved over his head and he was grabbed tightly from behind by strong, hard hands. The inside of the hood was musty and smelled like mothballs.

"If you fight me, I promise you, your son will be the one to pay," the same voice that had spoken to Henry on the phone hissed in his ear. Angry at being so helpless but not willing to do anything to further hurt his son, Henry complies. His body was so tense and his muscles so ready to take action that he was quivering slightly.

His hands were roughly pulled behind his back and tied, and he was shoved forward. "Step up," ordered the kidnapper, half-guiding and half-hoisting him into the back of some sort of vehicle, most likely a van. Doors slammed behind him. Footsteps crunched outside. A door opened in at the front of the van, then closed. The ignition started.

They drove away.

* * *

Henry Spencer had been in no way involved with the Aaron Stevens investigation, which was why no one had thought of him when trying to come up with a plausible list of suspects.

He had, it turned out, given a testimony that had helped put the man behind bars for the murder of his girlfriend, Alicia Tyler. But he hadn't been the only witness to contribute to the man's sentence (though definitely one of the major ones), and his testimony had to do with an incident he saw on one of his nightly patrols. And Stevens hadn't made a peep since his arrest. Not to mention, almost everyone in the department had thought he was innocent, apparently, so there was that.

They'd tracked down Mrs. Moore, found out everything she knew about Stevens, which wasn't much, since she hadn't heard from or seen him since a few years before he'd been arrested. She was horrified to find out what had happened to Shawn, and she promised that if she remembered anything else that might help the investigation along, she would call right away.

Jim Morton, the detective who had been the lead investigator on the case and a good friend of Mrs. Moore, had apparently passed away a couple of decades ago in a car accident, so he was obviously no help.

According to Stevens' parole officer, whom they contacted immediately after confirming Stevens' identity, he hadn't shown any sign of aggression after being released, and he'd made all his parole meetings and had been open and polite. They checked the address given to them by the parole officer, but the apartment he was supposed to be living in was unoccupied, had been for days by the looks of it.

They did find an old article stuffed in the bottom desk drawer about about a truck stop that had burned down seven years ago about thirty miles away.

It was a long shot, and it could turn up to be nothing, but Henry's cell phone GPS was either in a dead spot or simply not working, and they had absolutely nothing else to go on.

A BOLO had been issued for Stevens, but it didn't look promising. He was tucked away somewhere, both players in this twisted game of his in his clutches.

Long shot or not, they had to take it.

And so they did.

* * *

Henry wasn't sure how long he was in the back of the vehicle, tied up and blindfolded. He normally would have been on top of this sort of thing, but he was so exhausted and spent because of this whole nightmare that he couldn't even adequately keep up with all the turns they made. All he knew for sure was that the latter part of the ride was  _incredibly_ bumpy, like they were driving off-road instead of on. Since he wasn't buckled in, he got thrown all over the back of the car, unable to get his bearings and probably getting some spectacular bruises at the same time.

When they finally stopped, he heard the driver's door open and close again, more footsteps, and then the back hatch was thrown open and Henry was yanked out. The sack was removed from his head and to his surprise, the ropes were tugged off of his wrists.

He blinked in the early morning daylight. His captor was behind him. A gun settled at the base of his neck. He wasn't afraid for himself; only for his son. Ahead, a large, windowless building made of heavy wood loomed. It's warehouse-esque roof sloped upwards several yards and then crested back down on the other side of the building. The door blended almost seamlessly with the dark planks that made up the walls. There was no handle, only a large keyhole, the key to which he heard jangling in the man's free hand behind him. The key was then thrust into Henry's hand and he gripped it tightly, the ridges digging into his palm. He wondered if he could whip around and stab this heartless bastard with the key right then and there.

But there was a gun at his back and his son was in jeopardy. So he walked forward at the kidnapper's not-so-gentle nudges. As they walked up the bumpy, unpaved driveway to the building, his captor started to talk, almost conversationally, which made Henry want to kill him all the more.

"My parents were a bit eccentric," he said, pressing the gun a bit harder into Henry's spine. "Super-paranoid, you know? My dad had this place built when he and my mom got married. He wanted a place to go in case of emergency, and to store all his stuff that he didn't want to lose. Tornado? No windows. Intruders? No door. Hurricane? This place is as sturdy as it can be. Think of it as a glorified panic room, if you want. It's multi-purpose, though. I was glad to see that it was still here, you know, after all those years in prison? I would've used my old house, but it was probably a bit obvious and it's falling apart."

Henry answered in a too-even voice, "I know your whole sob story, Stevens, and frankly, I don't give a damn."

They were almost to the door. Stevens froze. The gun jabbed harder into Henry's neck. "So you figured it out."

"Wasn't that difficult once I started to put everything together. The obsession with justice, you were a literature teacher, your first name's Aaron. I figured it out on the way here. Would've seen it earlier, but I wasn't on that case and I never thought you were guilty. And you know, you may not have been guilty back then, but you sure as hell are now."

Stevens shoved Henry forward violently, and the older man barely managed to regain his balance. "Open the door," Stevens ordered. With no other options, Henry slid the large key into the silver keyhole and turned. Right before he pushed the door open, heart pounding madly as he anticipated the horror he would see upon entering the storage building/panic room, Stevens spoke again. "I'm not guilty, Mr. Spencer. You are. You didn't stand up for my freedom, even when you claim you knew I was innocent. You killed the mockingbird. You turned me into this. You did this to your son." He shoved open the door.

Henry's knees went weak, he could have sworn his heart skipped several beats, and a chill of pure, undulated terror shot down his spine, and it had nothing to do with the pistol still planted there.

His voice was weak, bile threatening to climb into his throat. He had to force himself not to do something stupid and attack the man then and there. He wasn't going to risk Shawn's life. If he was even still alive. The thought made Henry sick, but he couldn't push it away. He'd seen corpses that looked better. "Shawn..."

His son was unconscious, deathly pale, and hanging from a rope that looped over a support beam above him and then was slung over the beam and tied tightly to what appeared to be a coat hook on steroids on the back wall. His hands were tied together, forced above his head, but he was only hanging by one. The shoulder was painfully out of joint from all of his weight being on it for so long, making his right arm look several inches longer than his left.

His left arm... Henry, who had a stomach of iron, actually felt ill at the sight. The only word that came to mind when he saw his son's left arm was  _mutilated_. It had been broken brutally, perhaps more than once. The forearm was snapped, the bone having sliced the skin right open. At least an inch and a half of gleaming white bone was sticking out of Shawn's arm. Muscle and tendons were just visible in the gruesome wound, and blood trailed down his arm and trickled to the ground. It didn't look like he'd lost enough blood to be terribly worried about blood-loss yet, but that was a small, almost non-existant comfort. His upper arm was lumpy and oddly shaped under his t-shirt. His whole arm slumped limp and useless in its bonds, bloody and shattered. Thankfully there was enough slack in the rope that his feet touched the platform beneath him and offered him a cushion of sorts so that most of the weight was off the broken arm.

Henry wondered in horror if they got out of this, would Shawn ever be able to use his arm properly again? Even with extensive medical care, it was hard to imagine that ever working or looking the same way again. Then again, Henry was not a doctor, and he hoped fervently that he was wrong, and Shawn's arm would make a full recovery.

Shawn's face was bruised and bloody, and there was a small trail of blood from his head down his neck.

He let his weary eyes wander down his son's limp and beaten body, checking for any further injuries. When he got to the knees, his own knees went weak. The place where his right knee should have been was a bulging, grotesque mess. A layer of dried blood stained the material on and under the knee. Whatever was under the fabric was going to be massively misshapen, ruthlessly crushed, terribly swollen, and indescribably painful.

"You son of a bitch," Henry said, his voice low and angry. Looking up at his son's broken and bleeding body, hanging from the ceiling, something inside of him broke. Stevens' words echoed in his head.  _You did this to your son_ _._ Not that he actually blamed himself for this in the way that Stevens was implying, but it was something much deeper. Henry had always known the life of a cop and detective was dangerous. Every day he put on his badge, he was well aware that one day, he might not come back.

When it was his life on the line, that was okay. He'd signed up for it; he knew the risks. And despite how hard Henry had tried to get his son to follow in his footsteps, Shawn hadn't. At least not in the way he'd expected. And yes, Shawn had been shot and kidnapped, held at gunpoint, threatened and targeted and chased because of his own cases. And of course that had worried Henry sick, hard-pressed as he was to admit it. But Shawn was innocent in this.

Never had Henry thought that someone would go after his son because of him. Not like this.

In a sense, he supposed, he  _had_ done this to Shawn.

Desperation clouded over him. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Henry Spencer was at a complete loss of what to do. For the first time in forever, everything was out of his control. His son was severely injured, and there was nothing he could do about it without risking him even more.

Henry had never hated himself more than he did in that moment. Not when he'd let Maddie leave. Not when he'd realized Shawn had been in the gas station with Longmore the entire time. Never.

And he'd never hated anyone as much as he hated Stevens, and doubted that he ever would again.

"Done gawking?" Stevens needled. "Get inside, Henry."

Henry numbly crossed the threshold, not taking his eyes off of his brutalized son. Prison had surely turned Aaron Stevens into a mad monster, or maybe it had only helped him along. He was insane.

The door closed heavily behind them. Henry was guided forward until he was several yards from the horrible sight of his child. His feet nudged something soft on the floor and he looked down.

At his feet lay none other than a bruised, battered, and very dead Herman O'Dell, a man that Henry had hated for a long time for his ability to do whatever he wanted and get away with it scott-free because of his money, power, and influence. It looked like O'Dell had finally crossed with the wrong person. The sight before him gave him no satisfaction whatsoever, though. The way he saw it, O'Dell had gotten the easy ticket out. One shot to the head,  _boom_ , he probably hadn't even felt anything.

Henry was beyond grateful that Shawn was alive, and would do anything to keep him that way, but he'd already been through more agony than Henry could even begin to comprehend, all in a matter of a few hours, it seemed. And if Stevens had his way, he'd suffer unimaginably more before he died, because Stevens wanted Henry to suffer because of Shawn's suffering.

And right now, that twisted plan was working perfectly, as Henry felt like everything he had ever worked for, everything he'd ever truly cared for, was crumbling around his ears. All of those lectures he'd given about not sticking his nose in where it didn't belong, about staying safe, how do you escape from the trunk of a car, etc., etc... None of that had even come close to helping Shawn here. Shawn hadn't done some stupid, bullheaded thing to get himself into this situation. He was just the victim, the pawn.

Henry knew that nothing was going to change that, but he still said evenly, surprised that he was mostly able to keep the enraged shake out of his voice, "Your problem is with me, Stevens. Shawn's suffered enough. Let him go, and you can do whatever you want to me."

Stevens laughed. The gun disappeared from his back but stayed trained on Henry as the madman circled around in front of him, heavy steel-toed boots roughly kicking the lifeless form of Herman O'Dell out of his path as he moved to stand right next to Henry. Henry steeled himself and forced himself to look Stevens in the eyes, away from his son. Some dark, irrational little voice in the back of his head told him that if he took his eyes off of Shawn again, his son would be gone, dead. Stupid, but stubborn little voice. Henry had never been one to panic. He knew how to shove emotions into the back of his mind so that he could focus on getting a job done, no matter how haunting said job might be.

But this was his  _son_ , for crying out loud!

When he turned his gaze, he saw Stevens for the first time in over twenty-five years. The man had been reasonably fit when he'd been arrested, but he was now – there was no other word for it – ripped. His eyes were burning with hatred, malice, and hurt. Yeah, his situation had been unfair. And Henry  _had_  felt bad about the outcome, once upon a time. Not anymore, though.

"What happened to you, Aaron?" Henry asked softly. He'd never been one for the sentimental, trying to talk them down approach. But seeing as his son was hanging from the ceiling, beaten to a pulp, before him, he found he was willing to try new things. "You were a good man."

" _Was_ , yes. Not anymore. Prison  _changed_  me, Spencer. You law enforcement stooges don't get it. Your prisons are nothing more than monster machines, taking people who might have done a few misdemeanors and turning them into real criminals. And I didn't even do anything to deserve going! I had to learn to adapt behind those bars, old man. I was a twenty-year-old kid who had a bright future ahead of him. Graduated high school and college early, with honors. Great teaching job at a local high school. Then I got unfairly thrown into the system, twenty-five years until chance of parole, and you see what it did to me."

"You–"

"No more talking. Not now. There will be plenty of time for that later when the trial starts." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle with a stopper and started to approach Shawn.  _Smelling salts._ Oh, no, he was going to wake Shawn up, make him suffer through this conscious.

Then what Stevens said caught up with him. Trial? Henry had been so focused on Shawn that he hadn't even looked around the rest of the room. He hadn't even noticed until now that the interior of the building was set up to look like a small, makeshift courtroom. His stomach turned uncomfortably. He noticed briefly that there was a gun lying on what was supposed to be the judge's podium as well as one pressing into his back, but he quickly realized that he'd be able to move fast enough to get either right now. But he filed the gun in his mind, hoping he could find a way to get to the other one later and put a stop to all this madness.

For as bad as everything was right now, Henry knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever Stevens had planned next would make this look like child's play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now for the (mega) A/N:
> 
> (1) Yes, I went there with the research paper. If you're unfamiliar with the actors and actresses on Psych, then you wouldn't have gotten the joke, but in the excerpts of the research paper, the authors' names for the internal citations were all people from the show. Roday is Shawn, Hill is Gus, Omundson is Lassie, Lawson is Juliet. I couldn't help myself. And yeah, the research paper is written in MLA style... if anyone cares. Sadly, I just wrote the excerpts and made up the quotes and didn't do any real research for the "paper" but I would so love to do some research on this subject and write an actual research paper on it, just for the fun of it! (I'm a nerd, lol!)
> 
> (2) The reference to prison as a "monster machine" actually came from an amazing book by one of my favorite authors, Ted Dekker, called Sanctuary. It's a HARD book to read, deals with very sensitive issues, and is quite graphic, but it's a wonderful read that teaches a powerful lesson about forgiveness, grace, and also highlights the faults of the American justice system as we know it. It'll make you cringe and weep, but it's a fantastic read!
> 
> (3) The last episode... Let's just say the whole time I was watching it with my boyfriend, he was giggling like a maiden in love and I was covering my eyes, squealing, "I don't like it! I don't like it! Make it go away!" I. HATE. ZOMBIES. The deeper meaning to Gus's dreams, the bromance, etc. were great, but WHY DID IT HAVE TO ZOMBIES? Oh, right, because James Roday wrote and directed it, and for some reason he loves the idea of flesh-munching has-been humans feasting on the still living population. Ick!
> 
> (4) The next episode... the LAST episode... I am in shock. I don't want to believe it. It had better be a good ending that gives us happiness and romance and bromance and closure and dad/son-bonding and character development and beauty and rainbows and all things wonderful! But it also needs to be left open for a movie or continuation. If we get a good finale, I'll survive. If not, I can't promise that Steve Franks will survive... *laughs evilly* But seriously, guys, this is hard. But we'll be okay, Psych-os. *encouraging nod*
> 
> Sorry for the super-duper monster author's note, but I guess I had a lot to say. XD Thanks again for the reviews, please review this chapter, and stay tuned! Next chapter, we get Aaron's backstory, Shawn and Henry interaction, and more whump! :D
> 
> Love you guys!
> 
> ~Emachinescat ^..^


	9. Cool Backstory, Bro... But You Can Keep Your Knuckle Sammich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for your reviews, bookmarks and kudos! I'm so blown away by the response to this story! THANK YOU! As you can tell, I'm updating early this week, as a goodbye-Psych farewell present. I won't give any spoilers, but I will say that I loved the show's finale and felt they ended it beautifully, but even so, in the words of Blackapella ("Quarterblack!"), "It's so hard to say goodbye..." And this is part of my attempt to say goodbye. Psych will live on forever in my heart, and my DVD player, and fan-fiction. Please read, review, and enjoy!

Auto's Truck Stop had partially burned down in 2003, but it had been out of business and withering away from disuse and the elements long before it had caught fire. No one was sure of how the fire started, according to the article. It also seemed that no one really cared.

It was kind of ridiculous to have a truck stop miles miles down a winding, narrow country road that no sane trucker would risk driving on, and it was so far from the main road that there was really no point in its existing.

Lassiter had called the chief to let her know of their plans to check out the ruins of the building. He'd assured her that he knew that it was an extremely thin lead, but it was the only one they had. The chief had had McNab do a search on the place, and, as it turned out, it had been owned by a Jack Tyler, father of Alicia Tyler, Stevens' girlfriend whom Aaron had been convicted for murdering. "Good work, Detective," Chief Vick had said, even though no work had really been involved other than their searching the man's house and finding an obscure article that had more than likely been nothing.

Unless, of course, it  _was_  something, which it turned out to be.

Gus tagged along with the detectives during their investigation, promising that if they didn't let him go with them, he'd just follow them and would be in even more danger than if they'd just let him come along.

They drove for nearly forty-five minutes, twenty of which were on a twisted, dilapidated back road that led to the middle of nowhere. In the middle of nowhere was the truck stop, or rather what was left of the truck stop.

Henry's truck was parked out front.

"Stay in the car," Juliet ordered Gus sternly. Lassiter locked him in the car just to be safe.

Inside the truck, which was unlocked, was Henry's phone, lying on the driver's seat. Donning a pair of latex gloves, Lassiter picked up the device and turned it on. A message flashed across the screen: "BATTERY LOW."

He waited for the declaration of low power to bink away, and then went into recent calls. He whistled. "Spencer was on the line for nearly an hour with this unavailable number," he said.

"Prepaid cell phone?" Juliet guessed glumly.

"I'd say so. Damn it!"

This was bad. This was really, really bad.

Still, they bagged the phone to take back to the station. Maybe there would be some way of tracing where phone call had been made from, but if it was a disposable cell phone like they suspected, the chances of tracing the call would be highly unlikely.

The only other clue they found were the barely visible tire marks on the pavement, indicating that the person who had picked up Henry had squealed out of the parking lot and back onto the windy road at a high rate of speed. Once they got back on the main road, they would be impossible to trace.

They got back into the car, grim. "Did you find anything?" Gus asked immediately. His face was scrunched in worry.

Juliet replied as hopefully as she could, "Maybe. We need to get back to the station and try to run a trace on the call that was made to Henry. But chances are, this guy took his precautions. We may be back to square one with this Stevens guy."

Gus didn't respond, only glared stonily out the window of the Crown Vic as they sped back onto the spindly road, heading back toward the highway.

* * *

Shawn jerked awake. A foul, strong odor filled his nostrils and forced him into awareness. At first he thought Gus had eaten too much Del Taco, but then the pain caught up with his nerve endings and everything came back to him with startling, sickening clarity.

Smelling salts. Which meant he'd passed out after...

Shawn fought the nausea wallowing in his gut as he remembered the metal gavel crashing into his body multiple times. The pain in his left arm was so acute and white-hot that it felt like someone had taken molten lead and poured it into his bloodstream, searing his body from the inside out with the most excruciating pain he'd ever felt. Being shot in the shoulder was nothing.

He almost scoffed when he remembered telling Garth Longmore that his gunshot wound was the most pain he'd ever been in in his life. Looking back, that was  _nothing._  A mosquito bite versus a bee sting. Wait, that analogy didn't quite make sense, because one itched and the other stung.

Shawn decided not to follow his murky train of thought. The debilitating pain was making it hard to think anything other than a vehement "OW!"

His right arm was numb, except for the sharp, breath-stealing pains that periodically shot through his shoulder region. He wondered if the arm would fall off. He kind of hoped it did, because maybe that would make the pain go away.

And his knee... Shawn's chin was still resting on his chest, his head slumped awkwardly despite his being so rudely awakened. From this angle, Shawn had a pretty good view of his lower body, knee included, which was...

He shuddered. His knee was so swollen that he couldn't see past it to the lower part of his leg, and only the toe of his sneaker peeked out from behind the enormous, mutilated joint. Blood matted his jeans.

Agony wasn't even close to describing the all-consuming, fiery  _hell_  coursing through his knee.

A hand smacked his face sharply, jarring him into a more wakeful state. He reasoned dimly that he must have been pretty bad off if something as strong as smelling salts had such a minimal effect on him. At the slap, he blinked, tried to lift his head and failed, letting his chin flop back onto his chest. Too much work. A soft moan drifted from somewhere deep inside of him. He just wanted to go back to sleep; the pain was too much.

Another slap. And a voice. "Wake up, Shawn," simpered the voice of the devil. Aaron Stevens. Same difference at this point. "Don't make me break another bone to get your attention... something tells me that your father wouldn't be too happy about that."

Fear surged down down Shawn's spine and this time, his apprehension was strong enough to help him lift his head. He managed to steady his head and search the windowless hell-hole with pain-blurred eyes before they rested on a familiar form sitting on the front row of the jury seats, both wrists handcuffed separately to the seats behind him. Shawn had never seen a look so chilling, so terrifying, and so  _terrified_  on his father's face.

It looked like one of those wooden cutouts you might find at an amusement park, with a picture of a clown or a farmer with the face cut out so that kids and spirited adults could stick their faces in and snap some pictures to take home. In this case, the picture painted on the wood was of his father – usual ugly shirt, bald head, big ears, but instead of his normal in-control or pissed-off expression, someone completely unfamiliar had thrust their face through the hole in the cutout, making what should have been his father's face a mask of horror, pain, intense, bone-chilling anger, and... was that guilt? No, that couldn't be his father.

"Shawn." The Henry lookalike stared his son with unreadable eyes. His voice was calm. He didn't struggle against his restraints. He didn't look away from Shawn's eyes. "You okay, kid?"

It was a stupid question, but there was nothing else to be said at the moment. Shawn's answer was just as stupid. "F... fine," he managed to croak, his voice dry and cracked, either from lack of water or screaming, or a combination of both. He realized something then, and without breaking eye contact with his father, he addressed his captor. "Y-you lied t-to me," he stuttered weakly. "I psychic-ed my ass off f-for you, d-didn't get a dr-d-drop to drink. Ch-cheapsteak."

He noticed that his father's eyes hardened at this revelation. Stevens responded dryly, "It's cheapskate. And yeah, I lied. It's kind of a bad guy thing. I also told you that if you said my name, I'd shoot your kneecap. But I hit it with a giant metal hammer instead, which is going to be a helluva lot more painful and difficult to fix, by the way. Sorry about that. Just a moment of anger. Didn't mean to lose my head." The guy was actually apologizing for  _not_ shooting Shawn? He was certifiable, that was for sure.

"You didn't used to be a bad guy," Henry spoke up, voice restrained despite the hatred for Aaron Stevens obvious in his eyes and voice.

"We've been over this," Aaron said, exasperation in his words. "I  _wasn't_  a bad guy. You ruined my life. I had twenty-five bitter, lonely, hellish years for my perspectives to change. Did you know my parents didn't visit me in prison? Not once. They moved away, ashamed of their son. Haven't heard a word from them since my release, either. That does things to a person, you know? So,  _now_  I'm the bad guy, way worse than the supposed murderer who got unlawfully thrown into prison all those years ago."

Shawn let his head sag forward a little bit, but he managed to keep his neck relatively straight despite his exhaustion, pain, and strain. He knew the basics of this whole thing, that his dad had seen something on one of his patrols that had implicated Stevens in a murder, and even though Henry hadn't been involved in the investigation at all and had only given his testimony about what he'd seen that night, whatever twisted logic lived inside of Stevens' head had decided that it was Henry's fault that he'd been falsely accused, because without that testimony... blah, blah, crazy, crazy, blah.

Shawn was finally able to get his mouth into semi-working order and brought the attention back to himself, hoping that if he knew the whole story, he might be able to talk Stevens down better than his dad would. All of the man's anger – well, a great deal of it, anyway – was focused on Henry, not Shawn, and while his dad's words would probably just ire him even more, maybe, just maybe, Shawn could talk enough sense into him to... to what, he wondered hopelessly? To get him to apologize, let them go? Not likely.

But still. "Wh-What happened? What'd my – mph – my d-dad do t'ya, man? C'mon, t-tell me the st-story, 'nd I'll t-tell you 'bout all the times h-he tried t-to take 'way my childhood." He gave a weak chuckle, trying to connect with the man like he had been able to with Garth Longmore, but it seemed that he was just exhibiting for all to see how weak and disoriented he really was. He snuck a look at his dad, who surprisingly didn't look irritated at Shawn's jab at all. He actually looked kind of scared. Man, he must look  _really_  bad.

"Your father didn't tell you the story? Surprising, since that was one of the biggest cases of the year."

"D-dude, I was... I was eight. Y-you really think – ah, ow, ow – think my d-dad t-told a gritty mur-murder story to his eight-year-old kid?"

Maybe reminding this psychopath that he'd been a little boy at the time would help him see how convoluted his thinking was, would reveal to Aaron that Shawn was completely innocent in all of this.

It didn't.

"I can see what you're doing, Shawn," said Aaron silkily, and any small reserve of hope that might have remained inside of him quickly began filtering away. "And it's not going to work. Just like in the novel, I'm not concerned that my means to revenge is innocent in the whole ordeal. And you're not a kid anymore, even if you do act like it, and I can assure you that in the eyes of many, you're far from innocent – there are some people I've met recently in prison that would like nothing more than to tear you limb from limb from getting them sent to prison. You could actually think of it as a good thing that I got to you first, actually."

Shawn swallowed heavily. He'd briefly entertained the idea of people he'd put in jail wanting to get revenge, but the idea had always been cool, like getting an awesome scar to show off after a daring misadventure. Something to brag about. Not so.

"Henry, would you like to tell the story?" Aaron asked, spinning to his other captive, his eyes glinting darkly. Shawn's dad had been unusually quiet throughout this whole conversation.

"What, and then watch as you hurt my son for saying something you don't like?" Henry snorted, and Shawn's eyes widened marginally as he realized why his normally loud and demanding father had been so quiet; he was trying to protect Shawn. "Not likely."

Shawn couldn't help but think,  _But what if he doesn't like you saying_ that _?_

Thankfully, though, Stevens just seemed to find Henry's comment amusing. He turned to Shawn, hands behind his back. Shawn struggled to keep his vision in check as the world continued to swim strangely around him. Everything seemed to be filtering through between stabs of pain. He realized that he was cold, shivering. Probably had been for a while now. He might be going into shock.

"Twenty-seven years ago, on April 2, 1983, I was convicted for the murder of my girlfriend, Alicia Tyler. Lead investigator was Jim Morton – good man – he never thought I did it, and even after the conviction, he worked as hard as he could to get me set free, even working some on his own after the case was closed to try and implicate the real killer, this spineless belly-crawler you see before you." He roughly kicked O'Dell's body again, turned, and paced away from the body, agitated, hands still clasped together behind his back. He was shaking.

"I'm not so sure that his accidental car wreck all those years ago was much of an accident, to be honest. I always thought that maybe he got a little too close to the truth. When Morton stopped visiting me occasionally, giving me updates, and I heard about his death, I was upset. He was the only friend I had."

He fell silent for a few moments, then continued.

"I had found out a couple of days before Alicia's death that she'd been cheating on me for the past several months with Herman O'Dell. She worked in his household as a housekeeper. It was actually a pretty well-paying job with flexible hours that allowed her ample time to work on her degree. I'd never quite liked her working for another man, especially one that had had his hands in some pretty shady business as far as I was concerned, but it was a good job for her.

"But when I caught them together one day when I came by to pick her up after she'd finished her day's work, I was angry. Who wouldn't be? I didn't let on that I'd seen anything, and we walked the few blocks to my house before I brought it up to her in the alley we always took as a shortcut. I asked her about it, she confessed. I got angry, I..." He paused, the look in his eyes sad. "I pushed her. Shook her. She hit me, I shoved her again. It was the only time I'd ever physically hurt her, hurt anybody, and I felt horrible about it afterwards. I hated myself. She was screaming at me, telling me that I didn't understand. A police officer," he sent Henry sidelong death-glare from where he stood, positioned between father and son, off to the side so that he could see both of them and they could see each other, "was doing his nightly patrol, came and broke up the fight. Brought us both in. Neither of us pressed charges against the other. We broke up, I went on with my life.

"A few days later, she was found dead in the same alley that we fought in." His voice was soft. Barely restrained fury danced behind every word, sending spine-tingling chills down Shawn's back. From across the room, he could see his father staring encouragingly at him, ignoring their tormentor. His gaze was steady, telling Shawn to hang on. Be strong. How many hats, anything to keep his mind grounded. They were going to get out of this.

Shawn drew comfort from the connection, but unfortunately, it did nothing to alleviate the pain.

"As it turned out, she hadn't been cheating on me with O'Dell, but she'd been cheating on O'Dell with  _me_. They'd been sleeping together for years. This, too, came out in the trial, but it was used for his advantage, and instead of revealing the truth – that he killed her for being with me, that he forced her to the alley where we'd gone together, that he'd strangled her and implicated me for the murder – this information was damning to me, because apparently it was the other way around." His voice was raising with every word. "Apparently, when you have money, you have the power to make it make sense that I was upset that I'd been the other man without knowing it, and that we ended up fighting in an alley, got picked up by a patrolling officer that had nothing to do with the case, parted our ways on amiable terms, and then a few days later I came back to kill her, leaving her body in the same alley I'd 'attacked' her in, because  _apparently_  I'm too stupid to take her somewhere else so that I don't implicate myself!"

He was yelling now. "They took a minor domestic violence report, one that wasn't even acted upon, because neither of us pressed charges, and turned it into a murder conviction! Who wouldn't have been angry after finding out that their girlfriend, the one they'd been planning on proposing to when she finished college in a couple of semesters, had been sleeping with another man, especially a weasel like O'Dell? But suddenly Henry Spencer testifies, and everything comes together. Never mind the fact that the evidence was circumstantial. That O'Dell's DNA was on the body. They were sleeping together, of course his DNA would be on her, they said! Not to mention the fact that a couple of weeks before the trial, one of my neighbors who had seen O'Dell and Alisha walk into the alley and had finally been convinced to testify against him, had an unfortunate 'accident' and wound up dead, and though they never proved it, it was O'Dell, just like Jim's death, just like Alicia's, and he got away with it because he's been pulling the strings with his money for years.

"It was crooked, it was unfair, and if your father, who  _claims_  to have thought I was innocent, if he hadn't testified the way he did, making me look guilty, I very well would have gone away a free man, the real murderer would have been behind bars, and this new incarnation of Bob Ewell would have never been born!"

Shawn's eyes had drifted closed halfway through Stevens' speech, his ears still picking up most of the enraged psycho's rantings, but unable to hold his head up or his eyelids open any longer. He could see, in a very convoluted way, Stevens' reasoning, and he knew that being sent to prison for something you didn't commit would be enough to drive anyone a little crazy, but this was... extreme.

Suddenly a fist struck him in the gut, stealing the breath from his lungs and causing him to swing back on his arm again. He cried out in pain. He heard his dad cursing somewhere in the background, but he didn't register everything he was yelling through his agony. Stevens was yelling at him, up on the platform, right up in his face. "I'm sorry,  _Shawn_ , is this not interesting enough for you? You ask my story, you ask for the truth, and you're too good to hear me out? You think you can just sleep through this?  _Think again!"_

A stinging blow landed across his face. Shawn's head snapped to the side. He grunted. His dad was still making a ruckus in the background, the handcuffs around his wrists clattering as he tried to pull free from his restraints. Dazed, Shawn forced his head up, making himself meet Stevens' eyes. "S-somehow," he croaked, "I don't think hitting m-me's gonna help me st-stay awake."

He heard his dad break off his yelling and swearing and groan. Damn his big mouth. Even beaten half to death and hanging from the ceiling, Shawn's wit and sarcasm apparently could not be contained.

Stevens didn't react angrily, but it probably would have been less scary if he had. Instead he just smiled. Shawn watched him warily through slitted eyes, barely clinging onto consciousness. He was still cold, still shivering. And the pain wasn't as bad anymore. That was good, right? Or bad? He didn't know. He didn't know much of anything right now, except that his arm was about to fall off. And if it did, then good riddance. Right?

He was not thinking straight.

Aaron Stevens was talking again, but everything was muffled. Shawn felt like his senses were filtering in through a funnel. Flickers of movement flitted in his swimming vision, but nothing made sense anymore. He almost laughed; it was like the world had turned into a fun-house mirror, where up was down and left was right, and colors were inverted and...

Ooh, his head.

His eyes slipped shut.

Something rough slipped around his neck. Pulled tighter. He should probably be concerned, he thought.

But he wasn't, and he was out before his head thumped onto his chest again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ginormous thank yous once again to everyone who reviewed chapter 8! :) 
> 
> So, Psych is over. I can't believe it. I'm still in shock. But personally I adored the finale and believe that they handled it very well! 
> 
> So in this chapter we got Aaron's backstory... hopefully it was believable enough and up-to-par. I had the hardest time grinding that dumb thing out. I wrote and re-wrote and thought about it way more than I probably should have, and even upon completing it and hearing my sister (my fan-fiction guinea pig, lol) tell me that she loved it and that it was an awesome background, I still wasn't entirely satisfied with it. But hopefully you all will be! :) Definitely would love some input about that!
> 
> As for Shawn, oh-noes! What's happening to him NOW?! Sorry for the evil cliffie, but at least you'll only have to wait about 4 days to find out what's next for the poor guy. And poor Henry! :'( Who'm'I kidding? As much as it hurts me to write sometimes, I love the whump, and I love the angst! Does that make me a bad person? Ah well. XD
> 
> Next chapter, guys, we'll get more Shawn whump, WAY more Henry angst, the beginnings of a trial, and more investigating on the SBPD&G's part. (Haha, SPBD & Gus).
> 
> Please stay tuned, and let me know what you thought! And thanks again for the amazing support for this story! ;) I love you all, really and truly! Have a fabulous weekend!
> 
> ~Emachinescat ^..^


	10. A Not-So-Simple Case of Trial and Terror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or To Kill a Mockingbird.
> 
> Thanks for the review for the last chapter! :) Warning: there is a bit more gore in this chapter. While still not explicit, I think it's definitely cringe-worthy... :) Enjoy, and please review! :D

They had reconvened at the station. The results of their attempts to track the unavailable phone call from Henry's phone had not been encouraging, or even helpful in the slightest. Even with all of the department's best equipment and people, there was simply no way to track a call made on a prepaid, untraceable cell phone.

"Has anyone been able to contact any of Stevens' family?" Lassiter asked the chief, his eyes and voice hard. This was quickly getting worse than any of them could have imagined. This guy had covered all of his bases. The only advantage was that he almost certainly didn't know that they knew who he was and that they had been following their very slim and ultimately fruitless leads... which, of course, led to the fac that their leads were slim and ultimately fruitless, so it really wasn't much of a one-up after all.

They had been trying to reach Aaron Stevens' closest kin, hoping to glean more information from his family about where he could be squirreled away. The man's childhood home had turned out to be only about fifteen minutes away from the station, secluded in a large patch of woods.

As soon as they'd found the old address, the chief had sent several officers to the location, hoping that even if he hadn't taken Shawn and Henry there (which he hadn't), that there might be some clue to his whereabouts (which there hadn't). The home had been abandoned, falling apart, obviously untouched for years. So he probably wasn't terribly interested in connecting with his past, despite the fact that the meeting place he'd set for Henry had been an old truck stop once owned by his dead ex-girlfriend's father. It was more likely that he'd chosen the spot because it was secluded and hardly anyone knew about it.

"No," Chief Vick said, her normally stoic face clouded with worry. And no wonder. Her psychic consultant and his retired cop father were both missing, targeting by a craze parolee with a whacked-out urge for revenge. "We were able to track down his father, a Mr. Jordan Stevens, but unfortunately, he is proving quite difficult to reach."

"Evading the law," Lassiter guessed.

"Actually, in an important meeting that apparently cannot be interrupted," the chief snapped irritably. "Jordan Stevens is a prolific businessman in New York. His wife, Katherine, passed away two years ago from lung cancer. He's been in meetings all morning, and no card I try to pull is working. I finally convinced his secretary to give him your number, Detective Lassiter, so that he can contact you as soon as he's out. Normally, I'd give him the station's number, but I'm counting on you to jump on this the  _moment_  he contacts you, no matter where you're at."

"Got it, Chief. Though we may be stuck here for a while anyway, because we have nothing to go on."

Juliet's face was pinched with worry and irritation, but she managed to hold her indignation back better than Gus, who gaped open-mouthed at the chief and detectives. "Seriously? This guy's out kidnapping my best friend, and his father won't talk to you? Can't you  _make_  him do something? You're the law, dammit! Make him listen!"

"Don't you think I'm doing everything I can, Mr. Guster?" Chief Vick said, eyes flashing dangerously. "But Mr. Stevens has his rights, he's  _way_  out of our jurisdiction, and like it or not, we're on his time now." Her eyes softened slightly. "I want to find Shawn and Henry, too. But there's only so much we  _can_  do right now. I'll have the detectives follow up on any other potential leads we might have, scour the—"

Lassiter's phone rang. He all but pounced on it.

"Lassiter." A pause. "Mr. Stevens. Thank you for taking a moment of your  _precious_  time to help us with this highly sensitive kidnapping case." Juliet shot him a look that clearly said,  _Insensitive. Rude. Calm it down, Partner._

He scowled, but tried to be a bit less caustic. "Yes, Mr. Stevens, I'm here. And I have some questions for you about your son..."

* * *

Henry Spencer had never been as helpless as he was now. Both hands wrists handcuffed to the narrow but strong support beams holding up the row of seats behind him, he had absolutely no means of escape, no matter how much he pulled and struggled and shouted and cursed, no matter how deeply the metal dug into his skin, no matter how much blood seeped from the cuts in the wrists.

He was helpless as his son dangled from the ceiling by his wrists like some grotesque piñata, bone protruding from ashen skin, knee shattered beyond recognition, disoriented and shivering like he was about to fly apart. So much blood had now pooled from the gaping wound in his arm, and there was so much blood on his knee...

Henry was beginning to get very anxious about blood loss, because although at first glance it had seemed that it wouldn't be too much of an issue, the small stream of blood hadn't seemed to let up very much, if any, and Shawn was  _so_  pale and shaking like a leaf.

Henry had been forced to watch as Stevens had spun his own demented version of the story, making himself out to be the victim and Henry the villain, and while in many ways the younger man  _had_  been a victim all those years ago, he hadn't been entirely innocent. And Henry hadn't been the villain. O'Dell had been; many people, including Henry had long thought that O'Dell had not only killed Alicia and the former lead witness, but everything was covered up squeaky-clean and nothing had ever been proved. He was reeling a bit from the suggestion that Jim Morton, who had been a friend of his on the force, had also been killed by O'Dell because he'd never really stopped looking into Alicia's death, off-the-record, at least.

But he had more important things to worry about right now, like the fact that Stevens had started physically abusing his son again, this time right in front of Henry, punching him soundly in the gut and then backhanding him ruthlessly across the already bruised face. All this because Shawn had started drifting off because of his injuries in the middle of Stevens' grand tale. Henry had struggled and cursed and fought against his bonds, desperate to get free even if it meant losing a hand or two in the process, but it was hopeless. The way his handcuffs were positioned against the wooden slats of the row of bleachers behind him, he couldn't even manage maneuver his hands around enough to break his thumbs and slip through the cuffs, which was something he would have done in a heartbeat if it meant getting that animal Stevens away from his son.

Greater fear and exasperation had flooded his being at Shawn's telling off his attacker for nearly knocking him out to keep him awake, wishing that his big-mouthed son wouldn't do anything else to further anger their captor. But Aaron Stevens hadn't lashed out at the fake psychic again.

What he did was far, far worse.

He jumped off the platform, strode purposefully over to his backpack, rummaged around in it a bit, and then pulled out a thick, coarse rope from the bag. As Henry watched, horrified beyond words, the man quickly and skillfully tied a noose into one end of the rope, adeptly checking his knots with surprisingly nimble fingers for such big, rough hands. Henry's heart was lodged somewhere around the region of his esophagus when Stevens jumped back up onto the platform to stand beside Shawn, fitting the noose snugly around his neck, but still leaving a little bit of room. From what Henry could tell, Shawn had passed out again, and he was grateful for that at the very least, because he didn't want his son to have to be awake for this, whatever was going to come next.

Stevens tossed the other end of the rope skillfully over the support beam that Shawn was hanging from, and brought the rope over to the large, sturdy hook that the other rope was secured to, tying off the cord with the same amount of slack as the rope around Shawn's wrists – hardly any slack at all. He then fiddled with the first rope, the one Shawn was hanging from by his arms, untying it but keeping it firmly in his hands, grunting slightly as the job of holding Shawn's weight up fell from the hook on the wall to himself solely.

He eyed Henry maliciously. "I've got to make the line a little more taut," he explained darkly. "When his arm broke, it actually caused all of his weight to fall on his right arm, when the left one went limp and I think the rope has sagged a bit, as you've probably already seen. I need to fix that so he doesn't end up choking to death preemptively with only one arm holding him up." Already, Shawn's breathing was sounding a bit labored, but Henry realized with sudden clarity what Stevens was planning on doing.

"Don't do this," he rasped, a pleading tone in his voice. He sounded nothing like himself, nothing like everything he had always tried to be, and nothing like everything he'd always tried to get Shawn to be. "Just let him go, Stevens. You've made your point. Cut him down and kill me instead."

Stevens, his muscles bulging under the strain of holding up a full-grown man, simply smiled wickedly in anticipation and yanked on the rope, hard, causing the rope wrapped around and over the beam above Shawn to pull tighter. There was a sickening  _crack_  as the bones in Shawn's arm were forced to straighten at the pressure, no longer limp. Even in unconsciousness, a pain-filled cry wrenched itself from Shawn's throat as the bone protruding from his flesh cracked and snapped into a forced straightened position, sliding back into the flesh and tearing the gaping would anew.

Fresh blood spilled from the wound and down Shawn's upper arm, soaking into the already splattered shoulders and collar of his shirt. The man pulled ruthlessly until Shawn's feet were dangling about an inch from the floor of the platform, now being fully supported by both arms, broken bones and dislocated shoulder and all. Stevens tied the rope off tightly and backed off, satisfied, and then moved to the floor of the platform Shawn was hanging above, removing a section of the flooring and setting it off to the side.

Henry realized with a fresh bout of terror Shawn was now at least five or six inches from the ground with the removal of the trapdoor. If the rope around his hands were snapped, he'd fall down, feet inches away from the ground, with only the rope around his neck to catch him. And that was exactly the plan, Henry realized dully. No way Stevens would go through all of the trouble of building this raised witness stand a-la trap door if he didn't plan on ultimately ending his plan this way. Henry wanted nothing more than to wring this lunatic's head from his thick neck and buff shoulders. His heart broke for his son.

Shawn whimpered, and Henry saw red, not for the first time since he'd arrived at the multi-purpose storage building-panic room-hell house. He couldn't find the words or the vocal capacity to protest anymore – maybe his voice had left him after all of his former yelling and threatening, or maybe the horrendous sight of his only son hanging like a bloody slab of meat from the ceiling of a butcher's shop had finally managed to glue his vocal cords together in horror.

"Now," said Stevens. "Let's get down to business. I need you to understand, Henry, that I'm making a point. I'm not just some nut-job who's decided to base a revenge plot off a book for the hell of it. My point is that my twenty-five years in prison did this to me, and it was your testimony and O'Dell's treachery that put me there."

Henry finally found his voice, hoarse and broken as it was. "You've already told me this," he rasped, not taking his eyes off of his son.

"So I have. But here's my point: You said that there was nothing you could do. No matter what you personally believed, you did what you had to do and testified what you knew would get me convicted, even if it was circumstantial, even if it  _was_  a setup. So here's the deal: Herman O'Dell is dead. Murdered, a shot to the head." He inclined his head toward his "judge's podium," where a yellow file folder and the other shiny black pistol, not the one that he'd jammed in Henry's back earlier, lay. "I'm going to present you with the evidence. Fingerprints, although a real ballistics report and fingerprint scan wasn't possible given the circumstances, but we'll have to make do with what we have."

He took a deep breath as if collecting his thoughts and pressed forward, voice gaining slightly in pitch as he spoke, further attesting to his mental instability which he claimed didn't exist. "You're going to examine the evidence like a good juror is supposed to do. You're going to make your decision about whether your son is guilty or not based on the physical evidence presented to you, not what you think you  _know_.

"If I see you're relying on feelings and emotions, if you're leaning toward innocence because you  _believe_  he is and not because the evidence points that way... I'll shoot him in his good kneecap. Any time you veer away from judging the evidence, I'll shoot something else. Maybe a toe off next time. And I'll keep on shooting until you play by my rules. So maybe you should make it easier on yourself and him, and just do this the right way from the beginning, because he will suffer exponentially more if you turn into a hypocrite and start basing your judgment on feelings and what you think you know instead of what the papers and evidence in front of you say. You claim that you did your duty when you gave a testimony that falsely implicated me. So do your duty now, examine the evidence, tell me what it says, and then as the judge, I'll pass the sentence.

"Let me remind you: I can promise you that whatever his sentence will be, it will be ten times more painful if you don't do this my way. Got it?"

Henry struggled to comprehend how his world had fallen to pieces in such a short amount of time, all because of a case he hadn't even investigated over twenty-five years ago. The game that Stevens was playing was even more twisted and terrifying than Henry could have imagined. The whole courtroom scene had been meticulously constructed to contribute to the environment of this stand-off. The decision he'd made to uphold the law and to give his testimony even with the knowledge that it could potentially lead to the incarceration of who he believed to be an innocent man had come back to haunt him with a vengeance.

Henry was going to be forced to condemn his own son to death.

He didn't say anything, only stared at the madman before him in horror, no words coming to his mind to adequately express the helplessness and terror he was feeling. He hoped with every ounce of his being that someone had found his note and managed to put the pieces together – not that there were many pieces to put together in the first place, but that note was his only hope. Shawn's only hope.

Stevens was speaking again. Yelling. "I  _said_ , got it?"

Henry growled, "Got it."

He couldn't stand to look at his son's strung-up body anymore, and despite how much of a betrayal it felt like when he looked away, he did just that, glaring at the judge's podium blankly as Stevens made his way over to it, sliding latex gloves onto his hands as he walked, presumably so he wouldn't contaminate the "evidence."

Evidence that would only lead to one thing – his son's death. And for the first time in a long time, Henry Spencer had absolutely no idea what to do.

* * *

When Detective Lassiter informed Mr. Stevens that his son was wanted for the alleged kidnapping of a police consultant – the son of one of the lead witnesses in his case, along with said lead witness himself, the man's response was, "I can't say I'm entirely surprised, Mr. Lassiter."

Immediately disliking the man, Lassiter corrected edgily, " _Detective_  Lassiter."

"Regardless," said the businessman. "What can I say about Aaron? We raised him right. He made great grades in school, was a bit eccentric and didn't have many friends, but he graduated high school at the age of 16 and college at 19. He started teaching the next year, dating a sophomore he'd met his last year of college. She worked for Mr. O'Dell, he found out she'd been sleeping with her boss, and something in his mind snapped. I've heard many a psychologist say that the human mind, especially one of high-level intelligence, can be socially impaired and when a betrayal of that magnitude occurs, they can break mentally and do something terrible."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows at the man's to-the-point speech. It almost sounded as if it had been rehearsed. Maybe it had. "Are you saying that you believe that your son  _did_  kill Alicia Tyler?" he demanded.

He could almost hear the shrug in the elder Stevens' voice. "The court declared him guilty and he went to jail. As far as I'm concerned, he strangled that girl." His voice was filled with distaste. "It was a dreadful blow to my reputation as a businessman. I went to the trials, of course, but after he was sentenced and taken to prison, I made the decision to completely detach myself from him."

Lassiter, who was quite disconnected with his feelings and the warm, cozy ideals of family life, was actually quite taken aback by the man's noncommittal words. "You didn't see your son once in prison?"

"Of course not. It was bad enough that he got all that negative publicity through the murder and the trials. But imagine if I were to be seen entering that prison to see him; if the public were to think I was supporting him!" He laughed harshly. "It would have ruined my career and my reputation would have died with my pride in my son and everything else that went down the drain during that trial."

"No offense, Mr. Stevens, but that's pretty damn cold," Lassiter said dryly, not caring at all if he offended the man.

"Some might see it that way, but I had to protect my business, my wife, and the life I'd worked so hard for from my son. My wife wanted to see him when she found out she had cancer, but she declined too quickly and passed away only a few months after discovering it. It was probably for the best, though. Seeing him and being reminded of his failure would have only made her worse in the long run."

Lassiter had come to the conclusion very early on in the conversation that Jordan Stevens was a terrible person, and that he hated him very much. No wonder his kid had turned out so messed up with a father like that, not necessarily because he was socially impaired, but because his father was so callous, cold, and selfish. He didn't vocalize any of this, however, because he knew that this horrible man was their only lead at this point, and they needed to find the Spencers as soon as possible. "Let me be frank," Lassiter said through gritted teeth. "I really don't care about your family history, Mr. Stevens. All I want to know is anything, any bit of information you might have regarding where your son might have gone or is hiding our consultant and his about him or his habits or hiding places that you can think of can help."

There was a pause. "He loved literature and was teaching at a high school when he was arrested," Mr. Stevens said slowly.

"We know that. Anything else?"

"I remember him going on about some novel he thought he'd explicated in some new way that was going to get him published in major journals someday."

" _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , yes, we knew that, too. He's using the book as inspiration for his little revenge plot."

"Did you check the house?"

"His place hadn't been touched in several days, and the only lead we did find turned out to be a dead end."

"I meant  _our_  house. Where he grew up. It's big, in a large spread of woods that we owned. Would be empty."

Lassiter sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose with the long fingers of the hand not holding his phone. "It's more than empty. It's falling apart; it's been empty for twenty-five years."

"What about the shelter?"

Lassiter felt a tiny bit of hope stir inside of him. "What shelter?"

"Well, of course you didn't know. No one did. It's about two and a half miles from the house. The old dirt road leading from the house to it is probably grown over by now. I used it as a safety measure. An all-purpose safe-house, if you will. Originally it was built as a sturdy storage building for my most valuable possessions, but I had it modified pretty early on so that it could be used as a tornado shelter, storm shelter, hideout, anything I needed it for. No windows, one door that can only be opened from either side with a special key. When we moved to New York, we took everything in it with us, but we just left the building standing. I'm sure it's still impenetrable today. It's made of imported Ironwood, the hardest and most durable wood on the planet, found in the desert. When I built it, I built it to last forever." He chuckled humorlessly. "Or at least several lifetimes."

With no time to contemplate the level of the man's paranoia, Lassiter said, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Stevens."

"Good, yes. Well—"

The detective quickly cut off what was sure to be a quick, brush-off of a farewell. "Just one moment, Mr. Stevens. I want to make sure that I impress the importance of this situation to you. Your son has taken a police consultant and his former cop father, with plans to kill them for revenge. It took us far too long to get through to you in the first place. Several lives are at stake here, and you'd better hope that these men make it out of this alive. And I want you to make sure you pick up your damn phone the second I call you again, because now that you know what's going on, if you don't cooperate and they die, we can bring you up on charges of accessory to murder. I don't think you want to contemplate what that would do to your precious reputation."

Carlton's voice was ice cold and hard, hushed and deadly calm, filled with warning and fury.

He was pleased to hear a tiny bit of fear in the man's voice when he responded. Stevens cleared his throat. "Um," he said softly, his voice gaining a bit more confidence as he spoke, but it was evident that the detective had unnerved him. "Right. I'll make sure that any calls made by you or the Santa Barbara Police Station are patched through directly to me."

"Good,"Lassiter said threateningly. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Stevens."

He hung up, jammed his phone into his back pocket, and spun around to face the chief, his partner and Guster, all looking at him anxiously. "We've got a possible location."

"How possible?" the chief asked, raising her eyebrows, even as she nodded to indicate that they needed to take it no matter how slim of a possibility it might be.

"Actually, I'd say that it's more probable than anything," Lassiter said. "We need to get SWAT and some black and whites, and get over to Stevens' childhood home again. Apparently there's an overgrown trail there we missed that leads to some kind of shelter, and from everything that slime-ball told me, I'd almost bet my Crown Vic that he's got the Spencers there."

The chief nodded. "All right, good. Let's move."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, as I was writing this chapter a few months ago, I came to the realization that I think I hate Jordan Stevens more than his son. Worst. Dad. Ever. Anyway...
> 
> Poor Shawn! Yeah, you thought the broken arm was the worst of his bone problems, but now the bone's back in his arm, and the wound is worse than ever. *shudders* I had a hard time writing that bit. And still more whump to come!
> 
> Lassie and Jules are on the move! Go, team, go! (But not too fast; we aren't quite finished whumping our dear Shawn yet... wow, I'm evil. XD)
> 
> Thanks again so much for your support, and I hope this chapter, too, was to your liking! Please review! See you Tuesday! ;) Love you guys to bits!
> 
> ~Emachinescat ^..^


	11. I'll Snap My Thumbs and Fight for You

One of Henry's hands had been uncuffed so that he could hold the evidence folders and examine them easily. Unfortunately, Aaron Stevens had deftly danced out of his reach as soon as the hand was freed, and Henry wasn't able to attack him.

Shawn had woken up, but it was obvious he wasn't there. His eyes were glassy, and he was visibly shaking, so much so that Henry could see his battered form trembling from where he hung. A thin sheen of sweat covered every bit of his exposed skin, mixing with blood on his arm. The bleeding had mostly stopped again, thank goodness. But he'd lost too much blood already, and he was undoubtedly in shock. Henry really didn't know how much longer he would last if he didn't get treatment soon.

He looked at the meticulously recreated versions of courtroom evidence. Stevens was nothing if not thorough. He had made pages of evidence to go along with his claims that Shawn had killed O'Dell. Shawn's fingerprints had apparently been lifted off the gun by a crude fingerprinting kit, placed on one of the pages. A bloody fingerprint belonging to his son was beside it, and despite the fact that he didn't have the equipment to examine the page thoroughly, he knew that both fingerprints were Shawn's, and they were almost certainly a match.

Other information had been compiled in the manner it would be when it was presented as evidence in court, obviously done beforehand. Looking at the evidence that he  _knew_  was false, Henry couldn't help but note that if this had been an actual case and if he hadn't known anything other than the words printed on these pages, it would be a quick and easy, slam dunk case.

According to the files, Mr. Shawn H. Spencer had been seen entering Mr. Herman O'Dell's place of residence just a few hours before he was found dead. He'd dragged O'Dell to this obscure shelter in the middle of nowhere in his best friend's Toyota Echo. Bloodstains had been found on the back seat upholstery. Spencer had been meticulous in his wiping the body of prints, but he'd neglected to wipe down the gun, planning to dispose of it later. He was interrupted when the heroic Mr. Aaron Stevens had stumbled upon the scene, disarmed him, and restrained him while waiting for the police. According to the lead witness, he'd seen Spencer with the gun standing over the body in this very spot while he tried to decide what to do with the body. Unfortunately, he'd been forced to rough up the murderer a little bit because he'd not been compliant.

It was complete and utter bull crap. Henry knew it, Stevens knew it, and if Shawn's mind had been in working order, he would've known it, too.

"What do you think of that evidence, Mr. Spencer?" Stevens asked darkly from his perch behind the judge's podium. "Pretty damning, isn't it?"

"I think you're full of—"

All it took was a meaningful, hate-filled glance toward Shawn and for Stevens' hand to slightly tighten its grip on his own pistol held loosely but significantly in his hand for Aaron to cause Henry to back down. He'd already tortured his son. Henry knew the man would have no qualms about going through with his threats and shooting Shawn.

Henry tossed the evidence folders aside as he spoke, bringing his free hand surreptitiously behind him to supposedly scratch at his back. In reality, he was reaching for his other the set of handcuffs that still bound his other hand to the set of seats behind him. He didn't have access to anything that would help him break or pick the locks; his knife and other tools had been taken from him upon his arrival. He steeled himself for what he was about to do, setting his jaw firmly and keeping his expression neutral so he wouldn't alert his captor that he was up to anything.

He'd never actually done this before, but he knew the procedure, knew exactly which bone to put pressure on, and knew that it would hurt like hell, but he also knew that it was necessary, and if it came to saving his son's life, he would break every bone in his hand, every bone in his body, to keep him safe. It was a chilling revelation he made to himself, but he knew it without a shadow of a doubt.

With his free hand, he groped around, quickly grasping his still handcuffed hand and finding his thumb. He spoke while he felt around, carefully trying to find the small bone in his thumb with his fingers, which were already sticky from the blood that had seeped from the cuts on his wrists where he'd fought against the restraints. "If I didn't know any better," he said slowly, making sure he kept his voice steady and face unchanging even as he began to apply pressure on the bone, "and if I hadn't seen what you'd done to my son, and if I didn't  _know_  that all of this was false, and if I wasn't connected to the victim or the defendant in any way... then I'd say it was an easy case." More pressure. He ignored the pain.

"At least we're getting  _somewhere_  now," Stevens said, relaxing the grip on his gun and sitting back somewhat. "But I want more, Henry. I want you to give your verdict for this case. We both know exactly what it's going to be, don't we? And if you don't give the verdict, I'm going to make sure Shawn suffers  _way_  more than this before he dies."

Henry glanced at Shawn, who wasn't comprehending any of this. His son blinked lethargically, his lips barely moving and no sound coming out of his mouth, but Henry could still read the word on his son's lips.

 _Dad_.

He swallowed heavily, knowing that it was now or never. The pained expression on his face as he looked at his only son, beaten and tortured and hanging from the rafters, would be his best bet to cover up any reaction to the physical pain that he might not be able to completely hide. He increased the pressure on the bone in his thumb, speaking loudly as he did so to mask the coming snap. "Fine! You want a verdict? You want me to condemn my own son? You're that bitter and angry and lonely? Fine. Guilty. You got that? This corrupt, false, crappy evidence shows him as  _guilty!_ "

_Snap._

Excruciating pain sliced through Henry's thumb, shooting through his hand and up his arm. He managed to keep his expression the same, but his last word had come out a little louder and more strained thanks to his newly broken thumb. Aaron didn't notice.

Gingerly, making sure to keep the handcuffs from clinking against the wood, Henry squeezed his hand through the cuff, broken thumb allowing him to slip out fairly easily. He remained seated even as a triumphant, smirking Stevens rose to his feet and got closer to the witness platform. He looked at Shawn, who stared uncomprehendingly back. "Looks like your dear old dad has betrayed you," he said menacingly. "The jury pronounces you guilty."

To Henry's surprise, Shawn lifted his head slightly and a weak voice rasped, "Let'm go, St'vns."

"Let  _him_  go? No, if there's anyone I'm going to be letting go, it's going to be you." He looked meaningfully toward the rope connected to Shawn's hands that lead to the hook on the back wall. Henry knew without a doubt what he was about to do.

"Now that the jury has come to a decision," Stevens said, turning to walk toward the rope near the hook, drawing a switchblade out of his pocket and opening it, "I, the Honorable Judge Aaron Stevens, can finally pass my sentence. The death pe—"

He turned to gloat at Henry before he cut the rope to his hands, intending to leave Shawn with nothing but the noose to hold him up, but his prisoner wasn't where he had been before. Henry was already three fourths of the way to Stevens, arms pumping at his sides, and with his right hand, he planted a solid punch to the man's jaw with all of his strength, broken thumb and all, sending the man staggering backwards. As he stumbled, Henry slammed his left hand down on the man's fist clenched around the knife. The weapon clattered to the ground, and a quick kick of Henry's foot sent it skittering across the floor, well out of Stevens' reach.

The man had left his gun on the podium. The other gun had been shoved back into the backpack, so it wouldn't be possible to get to it quickly enough. As Stevens quickly shook off the hit that should have been debilitating to anyone who wasn't part giant, Henry had a decision to make. Should he keep on with the physical attack, trying to best the bigger man with only his fighting skills and muscles alone, or should he go for the gun?

If he went for the gun, Stevens might have time to reach his knife, or to hurt Shawn more. Henry lunged for the crazed kidnapper, slamming the giant slab of muscle against the back wall with all of his strength, trying to direct their fight away from Shawn's hanging form, not wanting his helpless son to get caught in the middle of the scuffle, and not wanting Stevens anywhere near Shawn ever again.

Stevens retaliated quickly, bringing both arms up between Henry's, which were positioned on his opponent's shoulders, gripping tightly, and slammed his forearms into Henry's elbow joints with astounding force, knocking the older man's hands aside. He followed up with a quick kick to Henry's left knee, bringing him down with a grunt. Instead of going for another hit, Stevens darted off in the direction that his knife had flown, half-stumbling, half-running. Henry groaned as he pulled himself to his feet and lunged at Aaron again, snatching a handful of his shirt and just managing to pull the giant man off balance enough to make him stagger slightly.

His fingertips had been inches from the knife.

Henry kicked the knife again while Aaron regained his balance, and it disappeared into some dark corner on the other side of the building. He ignored the pounding in his broken wrist, scraped knuckles and bruised knee as he fought desperately for his son's life with a strength he hadn't known he possessed.

Henry smashed his head into Aaron's chin, and got a fist to the gut in response. He made sure to lead the man away from where Shawn hung, staying as far away from him as possible. They finally made their way around to the front of Shawn, exchanging blows along the way, and Henry saw that his son's eyes had closed again. His heart raced as he frantically stared at Shawn's chest for evidence of breath in a rare moment of panic, and unfortunately, that was all the opening Stevens needed to crack a debilitating blow to the back of Henry's head.

Pain arced across his skull and down his spine, and the older Spencer fell to his knees, vision swimming madly. He fought for consciousness desperately, knowing that if he passed out now, Stevens would kill Shawn. He pitched forward, his world tilting dizzily, and he caught himself with his good hand, a gruff sound of strain coming from his mouth. His vision was flooded with black spots, but he blinked vigorously, steadfastly refusing to lose his hold on consciousness.

He had to save his son.

Distantly, he could hear Stevens saying something. To Shawn? He was gloating. Probably about to go for his knife. Henry struggled to his knees, his vision still coming in crazily. There was a strangled yell – Shawn! - and a thump, the sound of something hitting the floor – or being stopped midair by a rope.

" _SHAWN!_ " Henry screamed desperately, his terror bringing an adrenaline rush that thankfully sent new strength into his limbs and cleared his vision enough to see what had just happened before him.

Henry's stopped, eyes wide and heart pounding, not believing the sight in front of him.

* * *

Shawn felt like he was completely disconnected from the world, except for the pain. The pain was keeping him grounded, keeping his mind and body from floating away, but even that was beginning to fade slightly.

He wanted to be glad, but he had a feeling that somehow, this wasn't a good thing.

He was  _freezing_ , shivering and shaking like a leaf, and every tremble amplified the pain coursing through his body.

With blurry vision, he watched his father. He was still coherent enough to have an idea of what was going on, and to remember the basics of what was happening, but his mind was quickly slipping away, only to be pulled back slightly by another tug of agony. His dad was sitting down on some bleachers in front of him. One hand was handcuffed. The other was behind his back.

He couldn't see many details around him, which was strange for him, but his head was spinning crazily and none of his senses were coming in clearly (except for his stupid nerve endings; they were alive enough!), but he could hear the desperation in his father's voice when he spoke, and he thought he could make out a look that should have never been on Henry Spencer's face, ever.

Sorrow, terror, fear,  _helplessness_.

He needed to let his dad know it was okay. It wasn't his fault. Shawn focused on that one simple task, and as he did so, he felt rather than saw his father's eyes turn to him. With great effort, he opened his mouth, strained his voice, and a word that wasn't even a fraction of a whisper left his slightly parted lips.

"Dad..."

He hoped his dad had heard him somehow.

The judge – Aaron Stevens – was yelling at his father now, and Shawn watched blearily as the man got up from his seat. He followed him with his eyes, he heard the desperation in his father's voice. And somehow he found the strength to actually form and speak words. He croaked, "Let'im go, St'vns."

After that, he lost track of the world for a while.

He heard yelling, the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh, but he was drifting in and out now, and it sounded like they were behind him – at the very least, they weren't in front of him – and he had no way of knowing who was winning, or if his dad was still alive.

His eyes slipped shut.

They snapped open again at the loud, bone-rattling sound of metal striking flesh and bone and he watched in horror through dim vision as Henry reeled from a staggering blow to the back of the head, his knees giving way. He fell to the floor in front of Shawn.

Stevens walked around him while he collapsed, and Shawn was able to see a startling contrast of red against the back of his dad's head. Then he realized with a stab of fear that the man standing over his father, with his back to Shawn, had a gun in his hand. That had to be what he'd hit his dad with! And as Shawn watched, horrified, the man lifted the gun, aiming it at his father's head.

Shawn heard him say something about a change of plans.

Stevens was going to shoot his dad in cold blood, just like he had O'Dell!

Shawn Spencer knew one thing in that moment, clearer than he'd ever known anything else; clearer than when he'd known that Camdon McCallum had kidnapped himself, clearer than when he'd _known_  that Yang couldn't be allowed to get into his head, clearer than he'd known that Detective Carlton Lassiter would be the most fun prank-ee he'd ever met.

He had to save his dad.

With a strength of mind and body he didn't know he had, Shawn swung his legs back as far as he could, the shattered kneecap on his right side searing with pain, his arms screaming with pure agony as he swung on them. Spots danced in front of his eyes, and he was terrified that he was going to pass out. He held on though, because no matter what happened to him, Stevens simply couldn't kill his dad.

He swung forward, then backward again, his momentum carrying him where his strength and stamina no longer could.

His vision was fading uncontrollably when he swung forward, and with one final, excruciating burst of energy, he swung his good leg as hard as he could at the man in front of him, planting the toe and side of his sneakers into Stevens' temple, with more force than he'd known he'd had in him.

He must have hit the killer in just the right spot, just hard enough, because the formerly unstoppable Stevens dropped like a stone when Shawn kicked him in the head.

 _Ha,_  Shawn thought, his eyes closing now that his task was done, still swinging slightly in his bonds, the pain unbearable.  _Like David and Gigantor._

Gus's voice suddenly spoke up again in his head.  _"David and_ Goliath _, Shawn, and you know that. Stop being a jerk."_

Shawn didn't have the energy to respond to mind-Gus vocally or mentally, so he just let himself slip away, hoping that Iron Giant would be out long enough for his dad to gain control of the situation.

* * *

It took them nearly ten minutes to find the beginning of the old dirt road from the old Stevens residence. It took another twenty-five minutes to follow said trail on foot, as the path was so overgrown that only by walking would be able to adequately traverse the ground.

Juliet prayed that Lassiter was right and this was the real deal. They had taken so much time and effort to follow this lead that if Shawn and Henry weren't there, way too much time would have been wasted.

But it wasn't as if they had a better lead, anyway.

Thankfully, when the dilapidated and weed-ridden trail finally came to an end and the dark, looming walls of the building in question came into view, they were rewarded with the sight of a large, navy blue van parked in front.

Someone was here.

Several of the officers went for the van, guns drawn, and quickly, quietly confirmed that there was no one inside.

That meant they were inside the shelter, as expected. Juliet and her partner led the officers and SWAT to the front door. Guns were drawn, held out in front of them as they approached.

The door was indeed impenetrable, solid wood, with no doorknob but a strangely shaped keyhole set in a large silver circle in the center of the door. They examined it quietly, discussing their options in hushed tones. They could try to pick the lock, but it looked far too complicated, even with the right equipment, and they needed in there as soon as possible. They could announce their presence and demand Stevens to come out with his hands up, which would probably only result in an even more chaotic hostage situation. They could try to shoot the lock, which would probably alert whoever was inside that they were there, and there was no guarantee that doing so would disengage the lock; it could actually make things worse, but it was their fastest and probably most hopeful option nonetheless.

The decision was made for them when the hoarse, terrified, pain-filled voice of Henry Spencer sounded even through the thick Ironwood walls. " _SHAWN!_ "

Without a second glance to see what the others thought, Lassiter's finger tightened on the trigger. He fired several shots into the locking mechanism while everyone looked on anxiously. Without testing the door first, and knowing that it was going to hurt even if the lock had unlatched, but would probably break their feet if it hadn't, both detectives lifted their legs in high kicks and slammed their soles into the heavy wooden door.

The lock had disengaged. The door swung open, even as pain lanced up Juliet's leg.

So not entirely impenetrable.

As she, Lassiter, the officers and SWAT swarmed into the room, the sight before her made her heart jump to her throat, and she found herself distantly wondering how it could have ever, ever come to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intense enough for you? LOL, when I read this chapter to my sister, she was rocking back and forth on the floor with her hands over her mouth, looking terrified. She said the suspense was ridiculous. Which was kind of what I was aiming for, so it made me smile! :)
> 
> A million thank-yous to everyone who reviewed chapter 10!
> 
> Rescue's a'comin'! Just hold on, Shawn and Henry! HOLD ON! *flails*
> 
> Thanks again for your reviews, and please, PLEASE review this chapter; I seriously would LOVE feedback for this chapter, seeing as it's essentially the crux of the story!
> 
> We're still nowhere near out of the woods, so we've got more action, more whump, more angst, more h/c, more... STORY to come! Lots more story! :) Stay tuned, please review, and I'll see you next week! I love you guys!
> 
> ~Emachinescat ^..^


	12. A High-Stakes Game of Cops and Homicidal Scholars

Shawn was hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, a gaping wound in one arm and the other severely dislocated. Juliet thought she saw a glint of white in the wound. Bone? She felt sick. His knee was swollen beneath his blood-crusted jeans, obviously mutilated. His face was bruised, he was sweaty, shivering, and unconscious. He looked dead, except for the tremors. Then she saw that another length of rope had been fashioned into a noose and secured around his neck, so that if the rope holding his hands were to snap, he'd be hanged. She shuddered herself, frozen dead in horror at the scene.

An older man, bound and gagged and bloody, lay on the floor just a few feet away from where she stopped. She didn't recognize him. He had a small round hole smack dab in the middle of his forehead. His gray eyes stared wide-open, terrified, lifeless at her.

Henry Spencer was on his knees with his back to them, a terrible bleeding welt on the back of his balding head. He was swaying where he knelt, and his attention was focused fully on Shawn. Definitely concussed.

The giant man she assumed to be Aaron Stevens was lying facedown on the wooden floor, unconscious. His right arm was stretched out beside him, limp. A pistol lay at the edge of his fingertips. Men were already swarming Henry and Shawn, asking what had happened, and SWAT was running for the raised platform Shawn was hanging above.

She was moving to pick up the gun when Stevens' fingers twitched. In a move so fast and sudden that she couldn't stop it, he'd grasped the gun, slammed it up and into her jaw, and then sat up, aimed, and fired wildly at Shawn, missing him by a long shot.

Vision blinking in and out, blood welling at a brutal cut on her chin, Juliet grunted and struggled to her feet. Her heart sank.

He hadn't been firing wildly. And he had missed Shawn, but he hadn't  _missed_.

The rope connected to Shawn's hands snapped as the bullet plowed into it. Juliet screamed in sync with Henry as his body fell down, his still tied hands flopping down uselessly in front of him, arm grotesquely broken, the noose around his neck bringing him to a halt.

Officers surrounded Stevens, took him down.

_BOOM!_

Not even a second after Shawn's sudden stop, another gun discharged, this one from somewhere next to Juliet. Lassiter's bullet plowed into the rope connected to the noose, and Shawn dropped like a stone, crumpling in a broken heap on the platform, his legs disappearing into the trapdoor, his torso slumped awkwardly over the edge and on the floor of the platform.

Everything was still and unnaturally silent for all of one second, a second that seemed to stretch forever and was encompassed by ages worth of fear, worry, disbelief, anger, terror...

And then everything exploded. Like the twirling porcelain dancer in Juliet's old jewelry box, life seemed to spin back into motion, slowly at first, gaining momentum quickly. Henry, Lassiter and Juliet surged forward to Shawn, accompanied by several of the SWAT team. The remaining officers and SWAT wrestled Aaron Stevens into handcuffs and dragged him out of the cabin door, into custody.

Somehow, even with his obviously painful injuries, Henry made it to the platform before anyone else. He dropped to his knees with a groan, highly favoring his left leg, and reached over to his son, fumbling at the rope around his neck with violently trembling fingers. Lassiter reached them next, and it took him and a couple of officers to drag him away from his son so that someone who wasn't badly injured and shaking like a leaf could check over Shawn.

That would be Juliet. Like Shawn's father, she, too, dropped to her knees. She didn't know how she kept her own hands from shaking as she saw her friend's terrible condition. She didn't even know if he was alive.

An officer that had knelt beside her had gingerly taken the wrist on Shawn's right, unbroken arm, right below the ropes while Juliet worked to loosen the noose around his neck, keeping her eyes off of his face and trying to pretend that this wasn't Shawn, that it wasn't someone who was important to her, someone she may or may not have fallen for...

"He's got a pulse," the officer said, and her own heart leaped a little. It sank at his next words. "It's really thin and thready, though. Has anybody called the paramedics?"

Juliet responded as she finally worked the knot loose and gently pulled the rope from around his neck. "Detective Lassiter called them with directions when we found this place. They should be there any minute."

She whipped her head around when she heard her partner curse behind her. He was slamming his phone shut as Juliet turned to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"The ambulance can't make it on the path to the shelter," Lassiter said shortly. "They're sending some men our way with a backboard and some medical supplies, and they're going to have to carry him the two and half miles to the house."

"Dammit!" Juliet cried, concern swelling within her. Shawn was in bad, bad shape. He needed an ambulance; he needed a hospital, now. "How long?"

"At least another fifteen, twenty minutes before they get here," Lassiter said. He glanced over to where several officers had finally managed to calm a concussed Henry down enough so that Lassiter wasn't having to help physically hold him back. He walked closer, looking down at Shawn with a badly concealed concern in his blue eyes. He swore, his eyes running over the prone body in front of him. He squatted down next to the younger man and placed two fingers on his neck, right above and darkening red welt from the rope that had momentarily strangled him. Juliet's heart skipped a beat when he frowned and shifted his hand slightly, unable to find a pulse, but then she relaxed only slightly when his face smoothed out the tiniest bit and he sat back.

Lassiter ran a hand over his face, weary, before jumping to his feet, striding across the room and looking out the door. She knew that he was looking for the paramedics even though he had just told her they were fifteen to twenty minutes away. Finally able to let her emotions rise up now that this part of the investigation was over, Juliet's vision became blurred as she turned back to Shawn. She ignored the SWAT men and the officers surrounding her friend, trying to look him over and discern what they could or should do for him without hurting him more, finally coming to the conclusion that they would just have to wait for the paramedics before they did anything, even lift him out of the awkward position he was in, half-in and half-out of the trapdoor on the platform. They didn't know what other injuries he might have, and moving him, even to lay him down on the ground in a more comfortable position without medical supervision, could end up injuring Shawn even more than he already was.

With a trembling hand, Juliet reached out and tentatively ran her fingers through Shawn's tangled, unkempt hair and almost recoiled when her fingers brushed up against the burning hot skin of his forehead. He was running a very high fever.

She shouldn't have told him it would be okay for him to go off on his own, even if there was no physical evidence that he was in this kind of danger. She should have insisted on a protective detail, no matter how paranoid that might have looked. She should have done something, anything to prevent this from happening.

A tear slipped off of her nose and splashed onto Shawn's bruised face. "I'm so sorry, Shawn," she whispered.

He made a pained noise and shifted ever so slightly. She continued to stroke his hair gently, trying to calm him and help ease the pain he was surely in. To her surprise, he actually leaned into her touch, moaning softly in the back of his throat. And then his eyes blinked open, slowly and lethargically. He was awake?

The pain in his eyes made her want him to drift away again. He was shivering, unfocused, disoriented. His face was pale, bruised, and sticky with sweat. His hands were still bound together in front of him, because they didn't want to risk moving them, especially the left one She thought that his arm might be infected, because the skin around the gash was bright red and swollen. And yeah, she could definitely see his bone. Her stomach turned.

"Shawn?" she stammered, pausing slightly in her ministrations.

He blinked again, his hazel eyes confused and agonized. Maybe he wasn't aware. He was definitely aware of the pain.

Then he opened his mouth, his lips dry and cracked, and in a voice that really wasn't a voice at all, he rasped, "D-dad?"

Her eyes widened. "He's okay, Shawn. Your dad's okay. Help is on its way, I..." She didn't know how to speak to him when he was like this. It had been bad enough when he'd called her when he'd been kidnapped before, his voice hushed and pained. Now to see him like this, to hear his weak voice... This was not what Shawn Spencer was supposed to look like; to sound like. He was supposed to be hopping around like an over-energized Energizer Bunny, cracking inappropriate jokes, needling Lassiter until the detective snapped, and solving mysteries with a wave of his hand to his temple.

He didn't seem to hear her, or even see her. His eyes roved around lazily, his eyelids heavy. "I need..." he murmured, his dazed eyes seeing right through her. "N-need my d-dad."

She spun around, spotting Henry sitting on the edge of one of the benches that had made up the jury stands, having his hand examined by a few officers. There wasn't much anyone could do for either of the Spencer men until the paramedics arrived, but they were doing their best. It wouldn't be life-threatening to move Henry or to try to tend to his wounds. Not so for Shawn.

Shawn's father was looking around, eyelids heavy, obviously concussed. He kept snatching his hand out of the officers' grasp, asking about Shawn. She knew that if hadn't been concussed and heavily disoriented, there would be no way he wouldn't be fighting like mad to be at Shawn's side. As dysfunctional as their relationship might seem at times, Juliet knew that Henry Spencer cared deeply for his son, and that Shawn reciprocated the sentiment, even if they wouldn't admit it to anyone, least of all each other.

She caught the attention of one of the men assisting Henry and he came over, eyebrows furrowed. "Is he okay to for him come over here?" she asked. "Shawn's awake and asking for him."

The man glanced back at Detective Lassiter, who was alternating between snapping at someone on his cell phone and pacing back and forth in front of the open door, periodically glancing out at the empty wooded area around them, checking in vain for the backup that was much too far away. At Lassiter's curt nod, Juliet said softly, "Mr. Spencer? Shawn is—"

Before she could even finish her sentence, Henry had leapt from his seat, surprisingly quickly and steady on his feet for someone who had a concussion and goodness knows what other injuries. He hobbled his way across the room and fell to his knees beside Shawn, whose eyes wandered aimlessly, drunkenly, until they semi-focused on his father.

"Shawn," Henry said, and Juliet quickly stood at the sound of the gruffness in the man's voice. She knew this was a moment for father and son. No matter how much she wanted to stay by Shawn's side until the medics arrived, she knew that she would only be getting in the way. She went to go talk to her partner, who was now engaging in the pacing back and forth and glaring out the door part of his newfound ritual. She only spared a single glance back at Shawn and Henry, tears once again misting her eyes when she saw the unflappable, emotionally challenged Henry Spencer kneeling over his broken son, worn, shaking hand running his fingers through Shawn's hair and speaking in a low, soft, comforting tone. She couldn't hear what he was saying.

She didn't need to. She could understand the meaning of the tone without the words, and her heart broke for her friend and his father.

She turned back around quickly, swiped the tears from her eyes, and strode over to Lassiter, asking him if the ETA of the medics had changed. She knew it hadn't. She just needed to get away from everything behind her; she needed to put her mind on something else.

And judging from the way Carlton engaged her almost too eagerly, he did too.

* * *

Everything was bending and folding in his vision, like he was looking through some kind of whacked-out prism. His whole body hurt, even his eyes, but he'd felt something nice and soothing brushing through his hair, and he had needed to open his eyes, and see the source of the comfort. It had to be his father, right?

Shawn couldn't remember much of what happened, but he knew that it had been bad judging by the pure fiery hell that pulsed through every inch of his body, and he vaguely remembered his father being there – wherever there was – and that he had been in trouble. He'd been fighting someone?

Shawn struggled to get his psychedelic vision under control. He could blearily make out a form directly above him. He didn't move even as his eyes roved about uncertainly, trying to make sense out of the mess that was assaulting his sight. Finally, he was able to make out enough detail to see that this figure was small, blue eyes, blonde hair. Pink lips puckered into a frown of worry. Juliet, his addled mind finally reasoned. He wanted to kiss her frown away. The thought surprised him, but he had more important things on his mind than accidental mind-cheating.

"D-dad?" he asked desperately. Or at least he thought he said it. He wasn't even sure if his mouth had actually moved, let alone if sound had come out.

He realized distantly that his arm was hot and painful, raging with feverish heat and splintering torment. His dad would help him, would make him better. But where was he? He called out for him again, louder. Maybe. His hearing was all jacked up, too. Everything was funny, like it was coming from an old phonograph.

Then Juliet disappeared. Shawn was panicking. He couldn't move, he could barely breathe. And he didn't know where his dad was, if he were even alive, and now Jules was leaving him, too.

And then there was a dizzying blur of movement above him. He closed his eyes for a moment, but when he heard an all-too-familiar and all-too-welcome voice, a voice that he'd needed to hear ever since he'd woken up, he forced his eyelids to open again. A hand was back meshed in his hair. His father's face swam into view. Shawn opened his mouth, tried to speak, but his dad shushed him gently – since when was the great Henry Spencer ever gentle? the more cynical part of his brain said – and started talking in low, soothing words. Shawn couldn't even focus on what was being said; he only caught parts and he was drifting away again, the pain too much, but this time, as he passed out, he felt safe because his father was alive, he was okay, and he wasn't going to let anything happen to Shawn again. Shawn knew this was true, because his dad had just told him so.

"I'm never going to let anything happen to you again, son," he'd said.

Those words chased Shawn back into the darkness, but somehow they made the darkness not so dark anymore.

* * *

The paramedics finally arrived twenty-five minutes after Lassiter had spoken to them the first time. There were five of them, and they had a backboard and several cases of medical equipment with them. They finally managed to get Henry away from his son and had taken him to the other side of the room so that he could be checked out and bandaged up by one of them.

With their arrival, the rest of the officers and the SWAT team that hadn't already gone to escort Stevens to the SBPD took their leave, making sure to ask the detectives to keep them updated on Shawn's condition. There was nothing more they could do. He was in good hands now.

They did, however, leave a couple of men to keep watch at the now cordoned-off house. Though they had done an initial investigation of the scene while waiting for the ambulance, they were going to return shortly with their crime scene photographer and some more CSU people. This had started out as a rescue mission and was turning into a murder and attempted murder investigation. Juliet and Lassiter would return to the scene after checking up on Shawn at the hospital and stopping by the station to speak with the chief.

They were going to send some more medics to pick up O'Dell's body and transport him to the PD's morgue as soon as they could, but right now, getting Spencer out of the woods (both figuratively  _and_  literally, Lassiter thought wryly) was at the top of everyone's priority list.

The other four paramedics swarmed Shawn, examining him first without moving him, trying not to aggravate any of his extensive injuries, but in the end they realized that they would have no choice but to move him, as little as possible.

Carlton watched them work from across the room, his eyes hard. He watched as they carefully slit the rope binding Spencer's hands together and gently moved his hands to his sides. The detective barely concealed a wince of sympathy as the unconscious consultant made a pained noise in his sleep, reacting to the pain even in the throes of unconsciousness. Beside him, Detective O'Hara shifted. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. She was distressed. Spencer, even with all of his shenanigans, had somehow wiggled his way into her heart a long time ago, he thought distantly.

They should leave, he thought then, even more distantly. The paramedics had it under control; they should oversee the booking of Stevens. File their reports. Question him. They didn't need to be here. They'd only get in the way.

There was no way in hell he was leaving, and he knew O'Hara would say the same.

It wasn't that Spencer was his friend. But the fake psychic had slowly become a part of the department, and even if Lassiter wanted to throttle him sometimes (all the time), he didn't deserve this. No one deserved this. Right now, as far as the head detective was concerned, Shawn Spencer was one of them. He'd gone through torture that he himself in all his rough years of police and detective work, couldn't even begin to imagine. And yet he'd somehow managed to hold out against all odds and survive long enough for rescue.

Now he just had to survive past rescue.

And Lassiter wasn't going to let that idiot get out of this the easy way, like he did with most everything else in his supposedly charmed life.

It seemed like forever, but it was really only ten minutes or so after the EMTs arrived that they had Spencer strapped on the backboard and had hoisted him up between them, ready to carry him to the ambulance.

It was going to be a bumpy ride, and Carlton didn't envy Spencer in the slightest.

 


	13. On the Hike-Way to Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Psych, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harry Potter or The Walking Dead. (Never even seen the last one, nor will I ever watch it. I hate zombies. Blech! :) 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos, and who read or reviewed!
> 
> Please read and review!

It took them close to an hour to get Shawn to the ambulance.

How Stevens had managed to navigate his van through this mess and pull it up to the storage building was beyond everyone. Perhaps it was because he'd memorized the trail and had driven it many times. Whatever the reason, the ambulance was much bigger, bulkier, and harder to navigate, and the detectives and SWAT had had to go on foot to follow the trail, and there hadn't been enough time to wait for any other police vehicles to slowly drive through the brush, so they'd had to walk. It made Henry a nervous wreck. They'd said carrying Shawn on foot through the trees was his best bet, but every agonizing moment of waiting just squeezed Henry's already drained heart a little tighter.

Although the EMTs had tried to insist that Henry should wait at the cabin with the detectives until some more medics made their way through the woods with a gurney to pick him up, or at least until one of their police vehicles had navigated to the building, he'd steadfastly refused and was walking, occasionally stumbling, alongside them. In fact, it had been all that they could do to convince him that it was  _not_  in his – and more importantly to Henry, his  _son's_  – best interest for him to help them carry the gurney, because he was dead on his feet and injured, and if he fell or became too dizzy or weak to help carry Shawn, it could injure him even more.

Finally Henry had agreed, but he'd walked/staggered as close as he could to the bloody, beaten, and hastily patched up son, managing to maintain physical contact the entire time. It was a miracle that he was able to keep up with the paramedics, even at their careful, halted pace. His body was a cacophony of scrapes, cuts and bruises, and it was tough just to stay on his feet. But he didn't care.

He couldn't believe everything that had happened to his son in the past twenty-four hours.

Upon their quick, initial examination, the medics had declared that Shawn was suffering from shock, infection, severe blood loss and dehydration, dislocated shoulder, broken arm, and a badly injured knee – although they weren't able to get a good look at it before they strapped Shawn in and got him ready to go. They'd manage to bandage up the gaping wound on his arm the best that they could given their limited supplies and urgency to get him to a hospital.

He'd remained unconscious the entire time, whimpering in pain whenever his arm or leg was shifted in the slightest.

Henry had asked what his chances were if they got him to the hospital within the next hour.

They'd told him they couldn't be sure, because they didn't know how advanced the infection was. The blood loss and dehydration combined were serious problems, but if they could get them under control and get him on some antibiotics within the hour, he'd probably make it through the night.

They'd have to see from there.

Henry was shell-shocked, to say the least.

How could it have come to this? he wondered as the grim parade of EMTs, detectives, and flabbergasted father picked their way through the dense overgrowth of weeds and brush down the barely visible path from the building.

He was still trying to process the reality that the twenty-something kid he'd believe to be innocent all those years ago had done this. Aaron Stevens had been a quiet guy, to be sure, put in a terrible position by the law that normally saw things through the right way. Never in a million years had Henry expected something like this to come back and bite him in the backside in such a horrifying, violent way.

He struggled with his morals and principles as he followed the procession. He'd done what the law had required of him. Nothing more, nothing less. But if what Stevens had said about his old friend on the force, Jim Morton, was true, the detective had gone above and beyond his call of duty to try to set the terrible wrong right.

He would've gotten into trouble for digging around in a solved case if the chief had found out about it, and technically, he hadn't been working inside the law, but he'd pressed on anyway, determined to set the kid free who had been falsely accused. He'd followed up with Stevens, tried to help him out, and Henry had sulked about the poor kid's fate for a few days before pushing the unfortunate circumstances out of his mind.

There was nothing he could do about it, he'd thought.

But what if he'd tried? What if he'd visited Aaron in prison just once? What if he'd reassured the falsely accused young teacher that he didn't think he'd done it? What if he'd gone out on his own and done a bit of investigating like Jim Morton?

He might have been killed by O'Dell like Stevens seemed to think Jim had been, but at least Shawn would have been safe.

Left without a father, yes, but he wouldn't have become the target of this madman's plot.

Henry didn't try to stop the waves of guilt and anger that assaulted his pounding head. He kept his eyes on Shawn, his eyes always focusing on his chest, the uneven rising and falling as his severely injured son struggled with a task as simple as breathing.

Finally, they made it to Aaron Stevens' childhood home, and he could tell by the looks on the paramedics' faces and their increased urgency that Shawn's condition was getting worse.

Several ambulances were waiting for them in the dilapidated driveway. The waiting EMTs quickly ushered Henry away from Shawn, actually having to resort to physically dragging him away from his son and toward another waiting ambulance. Henry fought weakly, his many injuries from his fight with Stevens and the long, arduous trek to the house really taking their toll. "Let me ride with him," he practically begged one EMT. The tag on his white uniform said "Randy Davis." "Please."

Randy Davis shook his head firmly, directing him toward the back of his ambulance. By the time Henry had managed to shake off the gentle but unyielding hands on him, the vehicle holding his son had already squealed away in to the hospital in urgent pursuit of medical care.

With nothing left there to fight for, now only wanting to get to the hospital as soon as possible so he could see his son – he could care less about his own injuries, concussion and broken thumb or not – Henry shook off the hands that had once more gripped his shoulders to guide him to the ambulance and climbed into the back on his own, opting to sit instead of lie on the gurney out of sheer stubbornness, never mind that his head was pounding, his gut was twisting violently, and his vision was fuzzy.

He wasn't going to rest until he  _knew_  Shawn was going to be okay.

* * *

Juliet and Lassiter stood side by side in the brambles of what had once been an immaculately cared for yard but was now a verifiable jungle. There was yet another ambulance waiting, the driver propped up against the side as he waited for the remaining medics to make the trip back to the isolated storage unit and retrieve Herman O'Dell's body.

Funny, in all the drama of catching Stevens and trying to make sure that he didn't murder Henry and Shawn, the fact that he'd already murdered O'Dell had seemed to slip to the back of everyone's minds. Ironically, Lassiter thought, with O'Dell's death, Santa Barbara was probably a safer place than it had been before. The guy was a veritable scumbag, had probably been behind more deaths and disappearances than they were currently aware of, and had always wriggled his way out of any convictions scott-free. He'd finally messed with the wrong wackadoodle, Lassiter reflected grimly.

"You okay?" he asked O'Hara, whom he knew was still reeling from what had just happened. Lassiter himself was still staggering from the events, try as he might to convince everyone, including himself, that he was unshakable.

She nodded, and as he watched her, concerned, her nod seamlessly turned into a shake, her eyes welling with unshed tears. "No," she answered honestly. Her lower lip trembled, but she held herself together remarkably well. "We need to get to the hospital," she said, her voice strained. "We need..." She paused. "Oh my gosh! We need to call Gus!"

* * *

Gus was not happy. He was worried, and he was very unimpressed with the fact that Chief Vick and Detectives Lassiter and Juliet had felt compelled to lock him in a conference room with Buzz McNab guarding the door just in case he suddenly gained the ability to melt through the wooden door and escape to follow the detectives.

Please. This wasn't Platform 9 ¾.

If Shawn had been here, he would have undoubtedly given Gus grief about his steadfast belief that when he went to London someday, and he went to King's Cross Station and ran headlong into the brick wall between Platforms 9 and 10, that he would go through the wall and be able to board the Hogwarts Express. He knew this because Shawn loved raining on Gus's semi-frequent "Harry Potter Is Real" parades. Usually, it ticked Gus off, causing him to click his tongue at Shawn and snap, "I'm not doing this with you right now, Shawn," or a combination of the two.

Now, he wanted Shawn to tease him about his dorkiness more than ever.

He remembered the mockingbird he'd found in front of the Psych office yesterday morning. Holy crap... Had that only been yesterday? Gus was squeamish anyway when it came to dead things, but the mockingbird had unsettled him more than most. Anyone who would kill something as harmless as a mockingbird, snuffing out a life that offered no offense, only made beautiful music, was exceedingly cruel. Which, Gus realized, was the whole point of Harper Lee's novel, and he supposed the twisted point Aaron Stevens had tried to make out of his stupid game. It was unfair, disturbing, wrong, and if someone was willing to ruthlessly strangle a mockingbird with no reservations, what did that say they were capable of on a larger scale? Most serial killers started out torturing animals, Gus thought darkly. Even Tom Riddle, back at the orphanage.

Shawn would be goading him again, making fun of him for being a Potterhead.

Once again, Gus wished more than anything that his best friend was right back in the room, calling him a geek or a nerd or a gerd, which had been Shawn's recent combination of the two, which Gus had proclaimed made no sense, after which Shawn had claimed that Gus's left shoe didn't make sense, after which Lassiter had stomped into the lobby of the station and demanded they leave, so help him, or he would have them arrested on charges of disorderly conduct, loitering at a law enforcement office, and generally just being pains in his ass, and then Shawn had said something about how Lassie should really get that looked at; that hemorrhoids killed people...

Gosh, Gus really missed Shawn, as annoying as he was and as idiotic as he acted sometimes. He and Shawn had been inseparable almost since birth, best friends. And sure, Shawn had been in some pretty harrowing situations before (and often dragged Gus in right behind him), but something about this seemed different. Gus had a  _really_ bad feeling about this one, even worse than the one he'd had after getting that voicemail from Shawn all those months ago and then arriving to an empty car yard to find that Shawn had been kidnapped and shot. And that was saying something.

He looked at his watch. It was 9:13 a.m. He hadn't heard from Juliet and Lassiter yet, and they'd (well, Juliet'd) promised they'd (she'd) let him know as soon as they (she) found something. Lassiter had just stood there looking sour. Some things never seemed to change.

Gus paced to the conference room door, knocked quietly, and said, "Buzz?"

Buzz answered almost immediately. "Oh, hey, Gus! How's it going?"

Gus fought the urge to snap at McNab's all-too-friendly tone (that was just how Buzz was, after all), and said in a semi-calm voice, "Has the chief heard anything yet?"

There were a couple moments of silence, and Gus's heart leapt into his throat, terrified that Buzz was about to impart bad news, but then he heard muffled voices outside of the locked door and realized that Buzz was asking someone. A few seconds later, his voice came back, sounding slightly less cheery than before. "Not yet. But I'm sure they'll find Shawn soon." He sounded worried.

Gus could sympathize.

"Oh, wait," said Buzz, his voice suddenly attentive. I think the chief just got a call—"

That's when Gus's cell phone rang. He glanced down at the Caller ID: Juliet O'Hara.

Hands trembling, he answered the call.

"Juliet? Did you find them?"

Juliet's voice was small and crackling from a mediocre cell connection. "Yeah," she said. She sounded drained, exhausted. "They're alive."

"Thank God," Gus breathed. Maybe he'd been overreacting about the whole thing after all; maybe...

"Shawn's in pretty bad shape," she said in a subdued tone. "He's being taken to Santa Barbara Hospital as we speak via ambulance. Henry too, though he's not as bad."

Gus's voice was shaking as all kinds of horrible scenarios pelted his mind's eye. "What's wrong with him?"

"Not really sure all that's wrong," Juliet said shortly, "but it doesn't look great. You can meet us at the hospital. We're on our way there now."

Irritation flared. "If I can get someone to let me out of here!" he said. "I don't think it's legal to lock a civilian in a conference room if he's not convicted of anything!"

"It isn't, and we didn't," she said dryly. "Try the doorknob."

He twisted the knob. It turned. "What?"

Juliet almost sounded amused. "I can't believe you didn't even  _try_  the doorknob, Gus," she said. "And no, we couldn't keep you here without probable cause, but McNab was instructed to trail you and keep you from trying to follow us and get yourself into more trouble."

Ah, so that's why McNab had been enlisted to babysit him, Gus thought. "I had a lot of other things on my mind," he said gruffly. "And you tricked me."

"It was Lassiter's idea," Juliet offered.

"That doesn't make it any better."

Juliet gave a noncommittal cough, but didn't respond otherwise.

"Can you tell Buzz to let me out of here without a tail?" he asked.

"Carlton's talking to the chief right now. She'll take care of it."

"Thanks, Juliet." He paused. "Is Shawn gonna be okay?"

Juliet's voice was low, grave. "I hope so, Gus."

His voice cracked. "Me too."

Less than five minutes later, he was in the Blueberry, squealing out of the police parking lot and heading for the hospital, praying the entire drive that whatever had been done to Shawn, that he would be okay.

* * *

Henry had been patched up with heavy bandaging on the back of his head, some painkillers, a knee brace, a few stitches, a mummified thumb and a slather of antiseptic and had been released to the waiting room to suffer an even worse torment than his surface wounds, sprained knee, broken thumb and concussion: Waiting for word on his son, who had been rushed into the emergency room and whisked away nearly twenty minutes before the ambulance Henry was riding in arrived. The detectives weren't far behind in Lassiter's Crown Vic. Gus had been there just moments after.

Now they were all waiting.

It had been five hours. Five long, unbearable hours that they all sat in the waiting room, interrupted only by the regular, quarter-hourly calls from the chief and other well-wishers, wanting to know if they'd heard anything, if there'd been any change, if Henry was feeling any better, et cetera, et cetera.

He'd called Maddie, finally. She was on a plane from Miami, but she wouldn't be in Santa Barbara until the next day, at the earliest. He'd tried to contact Abigail, but it was hard to reach her in Uganda. He hadn't left a message with the operator; he didn't want to scare her. He'd wait and try her again later, hopefully when they had more news.

And they waited some more, with stale coffee, hard-cushioned chairs and an annoying, too-chipper voice periodically making announcements on the intercom. Oh, and the lone TV bolted to the wall at an odd angle was playing HGTV nonstop.

This reminded Henry of the wait after Shawn had been shot and was being treated, but at least that time he'd talked to his son, seen that he was awake and semi-coherent before being rushed to the hospital... This time, he wasn't even sure if he was going to make it.

No. He had to. Shawn was too stubborn, too full of life to give up now.

Henry hadn't shed a tear, but he felt like he'd been wrung dry anyway. Tears were an insufficient means of expressing his agony. His fear and remorse were far deeper. He sat there, dazed, like a zombie, sometimes pacing, also in a zombie-esque fashion, and by the way that the poor secretary up front reacted to him every time he rushed up and demanded to know something, anything about his son, he might as well have been rambling for her desk moaning, "BRAAAINZZZ."

When Shawn woke up, Henry was going to make him wish he'd never made him watch that stupid  _Walking Dead_  show.

No, when Shawn woke up, Henry was going to hug his son, and he was going to thank the higher powers that Shawn had survived, and, dammit, he was going to tell the kid how much he meant to him.

Henry was terrified he'd never get to tell him again.

Henry had been imagining the doctor coming to greet them so many times that when the scrub-wearing, intelligent looking woman with a clipboard and a slight frown between her eyebrows made her way purposefully to where their anxious and brooding group was waiting, he almost thought he was imagining things again, and when she spoke, she actually took him by surprise. "Family of Shawn Spencer?" she said.

Everyone but Lassiter stood up, and then when Juliet glared at him, he stood up begrudgingly. His gaze was troubled, even if he tried to look detached.

The doctor's dark brown eyes gazed seriously around at the diverse group, obviously no relation between any of them, and then she smiled slightly. She had a nice smile and crow's feet around her almond-shaped eyes, and the ID card hanging from her zebra striped lanyard said  _Dr. Angel Garfield._  She looked to be in her mid to late thirties. " _Father_  of Shawn Spencer?" she asked, her eyes hovering on Henry.

"That's me," he said, his voice strained.

"I thought so. My secretary seems to be a bit wary of you."

"I just wanted news on my son."

"I know. Why don't you all follow me to my office, so we can talk?" She led them out of the surprisingly empty waiting room, down the hall, and into a relatively spacious office on the right. There were a couple of chairs facing her desk, and then a small couch on one wall. She was quiet for a couple of seconds, then gestured at the empty seats. "Why don't you all sit down?"

Henry's heart dropped to his feet. "Is he—?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "But his injuries are severe, and there's a lot to take in. Why don't you sit?"

"I'll stand."

She regarded him with knowing eyes the color of dark chocolate and then smiled slightly. "Well, I'm still going to sit down, if you don't mind. I've been standing for hours." She sat.

Even though he recognized her ploy, Henry played along and sat down, the others following his lead.

"How's my son?"

She cleared her throat, her voice grave. She had a bit of a Southern accent, just a twang, and her soft tones were oddly soothing as she started her monstrous list of things terribly wrong with his son. "First off, I want to tell you that my prognosis is hopeful. He's in a bad place, certainly, and he's going to have a lot of recovering to do, but I believe that he  _will_  make a recovery, barring no further complications." It didn't slip Henry's attention that she didn't say  _full_ recovery. He narrowed his eyes but let her continue without interruption for now.

"I'll start with the more minor issues," she said. "Shawn has quite the goose-egg on the back of his head, and a mild concussion. He's pretty banged up; he has a couple of bruised ribs, a bruised jaw and some cuts and scrapes that needed minimal treatment." She paused to let this soak in, and then continued, her voice soft. "He had a severely dislocated shoulder on his right side; we reset it and have it bandaged. It will require therapy, and will be swollen and painful for a while."

Henry had figured as much. "One of the EMTs said something about possible infection."

"I'll get to that in just a moment," she said kindly. "I want to talk to you about his knee first." She took a deep breath. "Due to blunt-force trauma directly to the knee, Shawn's patella – his kneecap – has suffered a severe comminuted fracture. This essentially means, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, that his kneecap has been shattered."

Henry felt the blood drain out of his face. He didn't look around at the others in the waiting room, but he could almost physically feel their dumbfounded reaction. "He will require surgery to correct this, probably within the next few days, depending on how his other injuries are healing up."

"You mean you haven't fixed it yet?" Henry snapped. "What the hell have you been doing back there for the past six hours, exactly?"

She didn't seemed fazed. "We've been taking care of his other injuries, at least one of which was much more extensive than his kneecap. And either way, it's not uncommon for surgery on broken kneecaps to be postponed until the swelling has gone down and the outward abrasions are somewhat healed."

He nodded curtly, and she continued. "As I was saying, depending on how he's doing within the next few days, we'll put him into surgery. Since it is a comminuted fracture, and a severe one at that, the top of the patella has been broken into several pieces, as has the center, the bones fragments are much too small to be fixed back together. Several of the smaller fragments will be removed from the top. The orthopedic surgeon will take the loose tendon and attach it to the remaining patellar bone, and chances are, several wires and screws will be put in a place and small portions of the kneecap will likely be removed. Even so, his knee should make a full recovery, although there is the possibility of his suffering from arthritis in the knee earlier in life, for some muscle weakness – though he should be able to build it back up in time – and some chronic pain. But we'll cross those bridges when we come to them."

She fell silent, letting the stunned group process this.

Finally Gus found his voice. "He's going to walk again, right?"

Dr. Garfield looked at him kindly. "I can't give you an absolute answer, just because in cases like these, there's always the slight chance that complications could arise, but I can say with 98 percent certainty that he'll be walking normally again, likely without even a limp, by this time next year, maybe a bit sooner."

The group seemed to let out a collective breath. Lassiter fidgeted in his chair, Gus fiddled anxiously with his thumbs, and Juliet fiddled absently with a loose strand of blonde hair.

"As you can probably guess, the most troubling injury is his broken arm."

Gus made a soft whine at the back of his throat. "Just like Jem," he muttered darkly.

Dr. Garfield shot him a strange look, but continued. "It's broken in two places. His upper arm's break fairly standard. However, his forearm suffered from a compound fracture, which means the bone pierced the skin. Due to his arm being pulled violently after the break, the bone was pulled back under the skin, causing even greater damage to the skin, muscles and tissue. He lost a lot of blood from this wound, and because it was out in the open and went untreated for hours on end, he developed not only a slight infection of the skin around the wound itself, but a quick-onset case of Acute Osteomyelitis, which is a fancy way of saying fast-acting bone infection. Normally, Osteomyelitis develops over a period of time, but with violent injuries where the bone pierces the skin and the marrow is exposed to the elements for a period of time, a bone infection can set in very quickly.

"Like most infections, a bone infection causes fever, pain, and stiffness. Despite the short amount of time in which it developed, his fever was quite severe at topped 105 degrees shortly after his arrival. We managed to bring it down slightly through intravenous antibiotics and cold compresses, but right now it's holding at just under 103.7, which is still a dangerously high temperature, especially for someone in his condition.

"We surgically took care of the broken bone and cleaned and stitched the open wound, and immediately put him on blood transfusions since he'd lost so much. Our greatest concern now is getting his fever down and controlling the infection that's raging in his arm. It's affected not only the bone, but has spread to the tissue around it, some of which had to be removed. But in advanced cases such as these, there's always the possibility that extreme measures might have to be taken in order to stop the infection from spreading throughout the body, causing permanent damage and, in extreme cases, death, if the infection becomes too out of control and reaches the heart." She spoke gently, but her tone did nothing to belittle the horror of her words.

"I'm not saying it's going to happen," she said, "but depending on how well the infection responds to the antibiotics, and if it starts rapidly spreading to other parts of the body, you may have to make a very difficult decision." She looked into Henry's eyes with deep brown ones, concern wafting from her words and face. "It's not a decision that's easy to make, and it will be up to you if the situation calls for it, because Shawn is under heavy sedation and will be in no condition to make this sort of choice." She hadn't said it, but Henry knew exactly what she was talking about.

"I'm not gonna let you amputate my kid's arm," he said hoarsely. It was like all the air had been sucked out of their small corner of the mid-sized office.

Juliet squeaked slightly in alarm, and even Lassiter looked disturbed, though he had to have seen it coming, too. Gus just looked ill.

Dr. Garfield held both hands up placatingly. "I'm not saying that's even going to become a reality," she said. "But I wanted you to be prepared for what you're going to have to face if it does.  _If_  Shawn reaches this point, it may be that amputating the arm might save his life. I want to prepare you for that eventuality, should it come."

Henry managed to calm down enough to give a gruff, "Thank you" to the doctor, but his mind was raging at the suggestion that he might have to make a decision to either let them cut Shawn's arm off, or risk his life further. He couldn't imagine how much the loss of an arm would devastate his always active, on-the-move son. His heart felt like it was going to burst.

"Anything else?" he said, knowing that there had to be but praying that there wasn't.

"Blood loss and lack of water for over 24 hours combined to cause severe dehydration. We've got him on an IV, pumping fluids. But he's already looking a little better on that end. Like I said, it's the bone infection that is the most troubling at this point."

There was silence. Then Henry said, "Can we see him?"

She regarded the mismatched group for a moment, but her eyes landed back on Henry. "I'm afraid I can only let family in at this point, and only for a limited amount of time. He's being moved into the ICU from recovery right now. But yes, you can see him in just a few minutes, Mr. Spencer. A nurse is going to come get you and direct you to the ICU waiting room once he's settled." She looked at the others. "You're welcome to stay in the ICU waiting room, but I'm afraid we can't let anyone but family into the room to see Shawn right now." She sounded a bit apologetic, which made Henry think he might be able to needle her into letting Gus in later on, knowing that Gus would be out of his mind with panic until he saw Shawn.

Henry knew the feeling.

"I'll go," Gus said instantly.

Juliet looked like she was trying to decide if she should go to the ICU and wait or leave the hospital for want of anything to do, but Lassiter quickly helped her make up her mind by saying tersely, "There's nothing we can do, O'Hara, not here. We need to go back to the station, inform the chief of what's going on, and then get back to the crime scene to conduct the rest of our investigation."

She nodded. "You're right." Looking relieved and rather awkward, Detective Lassiter stood and moved for the door after thanking the doctor briefly for her time. He paused, hand on the door handle, as Juliet hesitated.

"I'll be right behind you," she said, and he nodded curtly and left the room.

She turned to Gus, who looked like he was about to fall apart. She took his hand, squeezed it tightly, and then hugged him. Henry watched the exchange numbly. Juliet turned to him. "Shawn's going to be all right, Mr. Spencer," she said, and she said it with such conviction that he almost believed her. "Let me know when I can see him, and I'll be right here. Sorry about Carlton... he's not exactly in his comfort zone right now."

Henry snorted.

"Tell Shawn I said to feel better," she said. She closed her mouth, turned, and the pivoted back, a strange, almost desperate look in her eyes, and opened her mouth again, like words were at the tip of her tongue, then she shook her head sadly, turned, and left without looking back.

Right after she disappeared out the door, a nurse knocked and entered, announcing that Shawn was settled in the ICU and that Henry could see him now, for a little while.

Father and best friend walked side by side, shaken to the core by the horrific turn of events, and as they followed the mousey little nurse with the upturned nose and too-big Eeyore-patterned scrubs to the Intensive Care Unit, each man was occupied by his own dark thoughts and wonderings, hoping beyond hope that Shawn was going to treat this battle like he did everything else in his life – with defiance, courage, and stubbornness so strong and independent it was idiotic.

If anyone could defy the odds and make a full recovery, with all limbs intact, they told themselves, it was Shawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you couldn't tell, SOOOO much research went into this chapter. And still, I'm not a doctor, so even though I did real research, there's still the possibility that I messed something up, so if that's the case, sorry! I did my best!
> 
> Also, I moved some stuff around in order to make this chapter longer, so it may end up being 16 chapters and an epilogue, even though it's the same length, but the last few chapters may be divided up slightly differently than I originally had them.
> 
> Please, please let me know what you thought, and I'll update on Tuesday! So much more hurt!Shawn, angsty!Shawn, angsty!worried!family and friends to come. Oh, and Dr. Angel Garfield: I created her in honor of my sister, whose name is Angel, and who is in love with Andrew Garfield (AKA the Amazing Spiderman). This one's for you, sissy. :)
> 
> Please review! Love you guys!
> 
> ~Emachinescat ^..^


	14. Peekaboo-boo, ICU!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't own, and father/son talk and closure will be in an upcoming chapter... so no worries. I didn't skip any angst or feels there. ;) Enjoy, review please!

Henry sat next to the bed that his son lay on, a bandaged hand lying gently on Shawn's not-as-injured right arm. At the shoulder, bulging bandages showed through the thin hospital gown where they'd wrapped his shoulder after setting it back in place. I.V.s were attached in several places in the arm, so Henry had to be careful not to accidentally tug the lines that wound off the side of the bed and to the I.V. Bags. The nurse had given him a rundown on what was being pumped into his son's body, a cocktail of antibiotics and nutrients to combat dehydration, and a heck of a lot of painkillers. A steadily beeping machine showed Shawn's vitals, and his temperature had been holding at a steady 103.5 for the last three hours. It had dropped .2 degrees since Dr. Garfield had briefed him on his son's condition, but it was still extremely high and the infection was raging through his arm, and, according to a concerned looking doctor about forty-five minutes ago, it seemed to be spreading, which had sent Henry into a state of panic that had surprised even him. If this kept up, would he be forced to make a decision that could cost Shawn his arm? And if not his arm, then his life? The thought nauseated him.

His right arm was wrapped in a kind of temporary cast, the bones set and torn skin repaired. Surrounding the upper edge of the cast, Henry could see puffy red skin in stark contrast to the white cast. Shawn was covered up to his waist, but Henry could see the bulge of bandages through the covers where his right knee was supposed to be. To think of the damage that had been inflicted on that kneecap... Henry couldn't imagine the months of agonizing surgery recovery and therapy Shawn would have to endure. He'd have to hog-tie the kid and throw him in the back of the truck to get him to go to physical therapy, Henry thought wryly, then stopped himself short, feeling sick.

He'd gotten a call from Detective O'Hara about half an hour ago, asking if there'd been any change in Shawn, and letting him know that apparently while they'd been rescuing Shawn, the department had gotten a call from a terrified Blanche Raleigh, who was Herman O'Dell's current housekeeper, saying that her boss had been missing when she'd gotten to work that morning, and that there was blood on the floor.

Her call was a little too late, but she hadn't sounded terribly upset when she'd learned that her employer wasn't going to be in need of her services anymore, and now that he was dead, she could get on with her life. Apparently he wouldn't let her leave under threat of death since she knew too much about many of his underhanded business ventures. She could very well be charged as an accessory since she didn't tell anyone, but would probably receive leniency because of the threat to her life and because she had some evidence that might prove that Detective Jim Morton's car accident hadn't been all that accidental after all, not to mention all the other information she would be able to give about O'Dell.

Not that it mattered in the way of convicting the dead man, but it would offer closure and probably lead them to some of his associates. It was good news, but Henry had a hard time focusing on anything but the fact that his son was gravely ill in the ICU because of something that O'Dell had set into motion over twenty-five years ago with the murder of his housekeeper and lover Alicia Tyler. Too many people had had their lives ruined by the underhanded, dirty workings of the wealthy criminal. The girl who had originally been murdered, Alicia Tyler. One of Stephens's lead witnesses. Jim Morton. Yes, even Aaron Stephens, although his downward spiral on the crazy-mobile couldn't be totally blamed on O'Dell. And now Shawn. His son.

Getting shot in the head by the man he'd framed for a murder all those years ago might have seemed like a poetic kind of end to Herman O'Dell, but Henry wanted to see him punished, to finally go behind bars, to reap the punishment for his wrongs for a long time to come. A shot to the head almost seemed too kind. He probably hadn't even felt anything. But at least he couldn't hurt anyone anymore. Neither could Aaron Stephens, who would be facing several life sentences now for first-degree murder and attempted murder, along with a slew of other charges.

How could it have come to this? Henry looked at Shawn's face, so drawn and pale, his skin seeming to be stretched tight over his face. Eyes closed, dark bruising on his jaw. Bandage around his head, tufts of wild brown hair sticking out from between layers of bandaging. A dark ring of grotesque bruises around his neck where the noose had stopped him briefly before Detective Lassiter had shot him down. His eyes traveled back to his arms. Both wrists bandaged heavily from deep lacerations from the restraints.

"Shawn," said Henry softly in a voice he almost didn't recognize as his own, so full of emotion and regret as it was. He blinked several times, cleared his throat, and tried again. "I'm sorry, son. This was... I never would have thought, even for a second, that anything like this would ever happen, especially like this. To think that a case that I wasn't even investigating would turn into a nightmare over two decades after is unthinkable. I didn't..." He broke off with a sigh, not sure what he was hoping to accomplish with this monologue. Shawn was under pretty heavy sedation; he probably couldn't hear him. Even if he could, what good would his words do now? What was the point of his regret, his guilt? What had happened had happened, and Shawn had paid a terrible price.

Henry swallowed, slightly tightening his grip on Shawn's limp forearm, careful not to disturb the I.V. tubes. "I want you to know that I'm proud of you, son. You went through more than even I can comprehend. But you were strong. And in the end, you saved me. You saved us both." He thought about how he'd been pistol-whipped by Stephens and he'd fallen to the ground, unable to do anything to help himself or his son. And then, blearily, through blurred vision and hearing that seemed to be filtering through an old phonograph, he'd heard a thump, seen Stephens's body falling unconscious in front of him. Heard the swinging of the ropes and Shawn's heavy breathing. Put two and two together. Shawn had somehow managed to find the strength to knock Stephens out cold with a swift kick to the head.

He took a deep breath, wincing only slightly as it agitated a bruised rib from his fight with Stephens. "If your fever doesn't go down, Shawn, if the infection in your bones tries to keep spreading to other parts of your body, they might have to..." His voice broke. "It's not good, and it's not a decision I ever,  _ever_  want to make. But I might have to." His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his throat was tight, but he forced the words to keep coming. "I don't know if you can hear me, Shawn, but if you've never listened to me before a day in your life, you damn well better listen to me now. I know you, kid, and how darned stubborn you are. That despite your... shenanigans... you're a fighter. You need to muster up your strength, pal, and fight this infection with everything you've got. I—"

He was cut short as the door opened. He spun around, ready to chew out the nurse for not knocking before she entered, but he blinked in surprise at who was standing there.

"Gus? What are you doing back here? Did they—?

Gus shook his head, his eyes wide as he saw his best friend for the first time since he'd gone missing yesterday afternoon. As big of a shock as all of this was to Henry, he realized that it was even more so to Gus, because he hadn't seen anything of Shawn in between. While he had been there at the doctor's briefing, he didn't know what had happened, the hell that Shawn had gone through. "I, uh..." He had a poorly-masked guilty expression on his face, one that Henry had grown accustomed to seeing throughout the years. Gus was horrible at hiding his emotions and guilt. "The nurse was called away for a minute, some emergency," he said quickly. "I'm sorry, but Shawn's my best friend. They can't—"

Henry smiled as best he could despite the circumstances and glanced toward the window on the door to make sure no one was looking. "I won't tell if you don't," he said gruffly.

Gus smiled gratefully and sank into a chair on the other side of Shawn's bed. He watched his friend for a few long moments, then swiped at his eyes. "C'mon, Shawn," he said. "You can do this. You'll be back on your feet catching bad guys again in no time."

Shawn didn't respond, and the room fell to silence except for the steady beeping of the cacophony of machines around them.

* * *

The next day, Shawn's fever broke. Well, it didn't break completely, but it made a rapid decrease from 103.5 to 101.2 which the doctor said with no lack of relief on her face was  _very_ good news. The infection was still there, and still pretty strong, but their efforts to confine it to his arm until they could flush it out seemed to be proving effective. He'd been moved into a regular room. "In fact," Dr. Garfield said, "if he keeps this up, we'll probably be able to bring him in to surgery to get that knee fixed soon, hopefully within the next couple of days". He was still on a slew antibiotics and heavy painkillers, but they'd taken him out of sedation, so he was just sleeping now. He was doing about as well as could be hoped, but he still had a long recovery ahead of him. But he was going to be okay, and the doctor had assured his friends and family that his arm would stay where it belonged barring any highly unlikely complications.

Gus had been staying with Shawn as much as he could since he'd been moved to a regular room and had been allowed visitors, but he'd had to get some work done and had been stopping by the station to see how the case was going, but everything was pretty much cut and dry, although they were digging up more about O'Dell and learning more about Stephens in the process. There was no doubt that Aaron Stephens was going away for good, and rightfully earned this time.

Maddie's plane was supposed to land at eight that evening. Henry found that he was looking forward to seeing her again, even though the circumstances were grim. He'd finally gotten through to Abigail, and convinced her not to take an emergency flight back to the states, because Shawn was going to be fine.

Detective O'Hara finally had some free time from her caseload and had told Gus she'd be dropping by to personally check up on Shawn later that afternoon. Henry hoped Shawn would be awake by then. Even though Dr. Garfield said that he was going to be okay, he still needed to hear Shawn's voice, see his eyes open and aware, more than anything. You can't just watch something as traumatic as having your child brutally tortured before your eyes and just shake it off. Henry was well aware that he'd be having nightmares about this for years. Maybe forever. And Shawn... Well, it was safe to say that this freshly un-sedated half-drugged sleep was going to be about the best sleep that his son was going to have for a while.

Gus was gone at the moment, and a nurse had just come in to check on Shawn, so Henry figured that he'd be left in peace for a while. He stifled a yawn, dragging his hand over his jaw, which was dotted with stubble. He hadn't shaved, hadn't even showered, since before Shawn had gone missing the day before yesterday. He hadn't slept, either. Everyone kept telling him that he needed to go home now that he knew that Shawn's life and limbs weren't hanging in the balance anymore, get a few hours of sleep in a real bed instead of half-dozing in the hard-backed seat by Shawn's hospital bed. Take a shower, eat something.

But he wasn't going to leave this hospital – he'd hardly even left the room – until he saw for himself that Shawn was going to be okay.

He was so wrapped up in his worries, regrets and thoughts, fighting those foreign emotions that he refrained from associating himself with on a daily basis that he almost missed it when Shawn made a slight pained noise in his throat.

Almost.

Henry snapped to attention, leaning forward in his chair, literally at the edge of his seat as he watched for any other sign that Shawn was waking. When it didn't come, Henry reached out and put his hand gently on Shawn's forehead, avoiding any bruises and scratches. Gently, carefully, he ran his hand through his son's unkempt hair sticking out from the front of the bandage. "C'mon, kid," he said, and even though his voice was gruff, his tone was gentle. "Wake up."

* * *

He didn't know how long he had been floating (falling?) in the darkness, and he wasn't even sure if it was real. If he was real. Scattered, strange and confusing images flitted through his mind, but they were so elusive and quick, he couldn't seem to catch hold of them, let alone figure out what they meant or even what they were.

He didn't feel pain, which surprised him, although he didn't know why it surprised him. He thought he may have felt pain before, and from the dread that had seemed to lodge itself into his consciousness, it had probably been bad.

Every so often, voices would scratch at his awareness, making him think that maybe there was something more than this darkness. That maybe he could escape, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to escape, because escape could mean pain. In his brief moments of semi-lucidity in this strange black dream state, or whatever it was he had found himself in, a sense of terror would overtake him, so overwhelming that he wanted nothing more than to squirm back into the abyss and never come out.

But voices, noises, filtered through occasionally. Beeping, murmuring. He couldn't understand what they were saying. Everyone sounded glum, or angry, or concerned. No one was loud. Everyone was subdued. He vaguely recognized the voices, but he couldn't put a face or name to them.

Eventually – and it happened so gradually that at first he didn't even notice – he began to rise out of the fog, the pressure that had been weighing him down for so long. He didn't even realize that the muffler over his hearing had receded some until he realized he could actually understand what someone was saying, or at least he could make out the words, though his muddled mind was still having issues working out what they meant. He heard his dad's voice, he thought, but it couldn't be his dad's voice, because his dad didn't sound like that, ever. He didn't sound desperate or defeated. He didn't sound anxious. He sounded grumpy and crabby and angry and gruff. Often disappointed. Occasionally proud, but he always tried to hide it behind the aforementioned emotions.

"...you were strong... if the infection in your bones tries to keep spreading … they might have to … I don't know if you can hear me … you damn well better listen to me now … you're a fighter … muster up your strength … fight... Gus...?"

That was odd. His dad wanted him to fight Gus? Or maybe he was only hearing some of the conversation. He wasn't sure what the random words and phrases he was hearing meant, after all, and there was no way that he could lift himself from this oppressive blackness.

After the noises came more blackness, then he realized that he could feel again. Not sensations, like pain, but he could feel something soft under his back and head. Something on his head and arms and legs. He suddenly panicked at the thought of not being able to move his limbs. He tried to shift slightly, but all that happened was a wave of pain that shot through his arm. A soft, barely audible whine made its way through his throat, the first sound he could remember making in... well, as long as he could remember, at the moment.

And with that noise, the real world came crashing back as he was thrust brutally from the dark and into reality, with the sounds and sensations coming into clearer focus. The pain returned too, but it was much duller than he had expected. He stopped trying to move, kept his eyes shut and tried to stop the barrage of memories that were suddenly assaulting him. Dead mockingbirds and murdered environmentalists, the fight in his apartment, Aaron Stephens and his insane revenge plot, his dad, bones breaking and guns being fired and...

Then there was a hand in his hair, the touch gentle. "C'mon, kid," it said. "Wake up."

That was his dad again, the dad that couldn't be his dad, and suddenly, despite the horror of remembering the hell that he had been through, despite the dull pain and the confusion and chaos, Shawn needed one thing more than anything – his dad.

With enormous effort, a lot of blinking and groaning with pain and effort, he finally managed to unstick his gorilla-glued eyelids and pry his eyes opened to see the blurry image of his father hovering over him.

* * *

Doctor Angel Garfield hurried down the hall, her white coat flapping behind her. She'd just found out that one of her patients had woken up, and although a nurse had already started checking on him, she wanted to see for herself.

She'd been a doctor for nine years now, and she'd seen many things, terrible accidents, terrible non-accidents – there was a surprising amount of violence in Santa Barbara, she'd realized – but the level of brutality and violence in this case disturbed her perhaps more than anything she'd seen in a while. She'd become a bit jaded in her years as a doctor, maybe, because she'd seen a lot more about humanity than she would have ever imagined through her experiences in the ER, but it still appalled and even shocked her to a certain extent that one human being could do something like this to another.

Shawn Spencer was lucky to have survived with all his limbs intact.

She didn't know everything that had conspired, only what she had needed to know in order to best treat her patient, but what she had been told bothered her more than her professionalism and pride cared to admit.

One thing she had figured out was that Mr. Spencer was a fighter. She hadn't told his father how terrifyingly close he had come to having to make the choice about amputating his arm; it had been that bad. But he had started responding to the medicines, and now that he was awake, she was eager to meet this resilient young man – she'd read about him in the paper before, and although she wasn't really sure she believed in psychics, she was still impressed.

She reached the room, took a moment to steel herself as she always did before entering a patient's room, carefully arranging her face into the schooled expression of understanding, control and calmness that she had long ago mastered. She knocked on the door and slipped inside.

The room looked like an exotic rainforest populated by a tribe of pineapples. She'd been in here before but the forest had expanded since early this morning. Flowers, balloons, cards and lots and lots of pineapples covered almost every available surface, gifts and messages from well-wishers, friends and family. She wasn't sure what was with the pineapples, but they had overtaken the room.

Shawn's father, Henry, a balding, gruff man who hadn't slept in days (or showered, her nose detected), whom she had noticed cared deeply about his son but had a very hard time expressing it and Burton Guster, her patient's best friend who had snuck into the ICU room several times (she knew, she understood, and, at her best judgment, she had overlooked, though she wouldn't let anyone else know that) were sitting on either side of the bed. Lacey Carter, one of this floor's morning nurses, was taking Shawn's vitals while he lay on the bed, eyes closed but body tensed slightly, and she knew he was awake. There was a cup of ice chips and a spoon on the table by the bed.

"Knock knock," she said as she entered, a standard greeting she used when she was "intruding" on her patients and their family.

To her absolute surprise, her patient, the one with a dislocated shoulder, cracked shoulder, busted kneecap and infected compound arm fracture, not to mention more trauma than even Nicholas Sparks would know how to write in a 300-page novel weighing on his mind if he remembered, cracked open eyes with dark circles beneath them and answered in a raspy, exhausted and pain-filled voice, "Who's there?"

Mr. Spencer, Sr. snorted, shaking his head. Mr. Guster said seriously, "It's the doctor, Shawn. Remember, we told you we'd called her since you woke up?" He thrust three dark brown fingers into his friend's face and demanded, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

She noticed with concern but not surprise that Shawn flinched at the sudden movement and close proximity of his friend, but before she could say anything, he responded to Mr. Guster in a voice that was still weak but obviously amused, "Gus, don't be as useless as a razor in the  _Duck Dynasty_  household. She said 'knock knock,' I said, 'Who's there?' It was a joke."

Dr. Garfield wasn't quite able to cover up her snort-laugh with a cough like she'd hoped, but she managed to put her doctor-face back on. She moved forward, amazed at his quick wit this soon after waking up, at his seeming nonchalance about the whole situation. But then she got closer and she met his eyes, and she saw in those hazel depths a pain and stark terror that could not be hidden behind a mask of humor. His eyes told the true story, and she knew he remembered what had happened to him. He was playing at being funny, shrugging off the traumatic experience, but inside his head, all hell was breaking loose.

Fresh sympathy filled her, but then she reminded herself that she was a doctor, this was her patient, she was a professional, and that from what she'd seen of this guy, he wasn't the kind that would want pity anyway. "Hi, Mr. Spencer," she said, putting her hands in her coat pockets. Normally she would go for a handshake, but in this case, with two dysfunctional arms, she was kind of out of options. She didn't think it would go well to try to shake his left foot in greeting, even if it was the only limb that wasn't significantly injured. "I'm Dr. Angel Garfield. I've been taking care of you, but we haven't officially met. How are you feeling?"

He grunted noncommittally, his eyes sliding between his father and best friend. "Fine."

"Uh-huh," she said, not really believing him in the slightest. "Are you in pain?"

He looked like he was going to shake his head, but then he grimaced and said, "Little bit."

"We'll get you some pain medicine soon now that you're awake and can take pills. Sound good?"

"Sure," he said. "So... when do I get out of here?"

She checked herself right before she rolled her eyes, not exactly a picture of professionalism. So he was going to be one of  _those_  patients. She should have known, just from everything she'd heard about him and the sheer stubbornness she'd witnessed firsthand in his miraculous survival, that he wouldn't want to stick around the hospital any longer than he absolutely had to. _  
_

Well, hell if she was going to let him check out of the hospital AMA anytime before she was absolutely positive he was ready to be out of the hospital! He'd just have to put his big boy pants on and deal with it; he'd been lucky to survive, let alone survive with his arm attached, and she wasn't about to let her cantankerous patient do anything to further harm himself because he didn't want to be confined in a hospital bed!

She didn't say any of this out loud though (professionalism, after all). Instead, she just gave her weary patient a grim smile and said, "I hope you don't miknd the decor, Mr. Spencer. Because I may not be psychic, but I don't need spirits to tell me that you're probably going to be with us for quite some time."

He looked none too pleased with this information.

Well, tough luck, as far as Dr. Angel Garfield was concerned.


	15. What Does the Faux Say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Psych, To Kill a Mockingbird or Iron Giant.

Even though Shawn found that he really liked Dr. Angel Garfield, he was glad when she and the hot nurse left the room. He was having a hard enough time just being around Gus and his father right now. All the touching and poking and prodding was going to drive him insane. Every brush against his skin, no matter how gentle, had him back in that storage building, metal gavel crashing into his arm and knee.

No one had said anything to him about how close he'd been to losing his arm, but he'd figured it out pretty quickly. Even freshly woken up from a drugged stupor after being beaten almost to death, Shawn's "psychicness" was pretty unstoppable. He remembered what he'd heard his dad say while he was still under, and the bit of writing he'd noticed earlier on the doctor's chart. The way Gus kept looking at his arm as if it were about to jump off of his body and drag itself away like  _Pirates of the Caribbean_ (Gus couldn't watch that part, it freaked him out too much). It wasn't too hard to deduce that he'd been  _this_  close to losing his arm, the horror of which he couldn't even begin to process at the moment.

As it was, he'd been given the rundown by his doctor and the nurse with occasional interruptions from Gus and Dad. Two breaks in his left arm, dislocated right shoulder, shattered kneecap, bruised ribs, concussion, dehydration, blood loss... It was a pretty overwhelming list. Good news was that even though three out of four limbs were currently out of commission, they should be back in the game eventually. Maybe even within a year he'd be walking and flailing around and making an idiot out of himself for the police department (one of his dad's interruptions, obviously). But he was going to be incapacitated for a while. He was going to go into surgery tomorrow for his knee.

Apparently most of the police station had been by while he'd been unconscious, including the chief, Jules and Lassie. Some of his dad's friends, even Gus's parents had stopped by. His mom's plane would be in in a few hours. Lassie and Jules would be stopping by this evening or tomorrow to take his statement. Abigail had called his cell and left him a message; her access to phones were kind of sporadic, but she was thinking about him, she missed him, and she was planning on flying in as soon as she could to come and see him and take care of him.

Mrs. Moore had heard that he'd been rushed to the hospital, and she'd brought him a card, a small vase of flowers, and a pristine, beautifully bound fiftieth anniversary edition of  _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , because she'd remembered his interest when he'd visited the library the other day. She obviously didn't know the whole story of his traumatic experience, but the thought was nice. Thankfully, his dad had stuffed it behind a couple of pineapples, because even though Shawn hadn't said anything about it, that book was really freaking him out and he  _really_  didn't want anything to do with it ever again. It wasn't Mrs. Moore's fault, or even Harper Lee's fault for writing that book, but the plot had screwed him up pretty badly.

He appreciated the gestures, the gifts, the proof that even though he went out of his way to drive people crazy sometimes, that he still had people that cared about him, but he just wanted to be left alone. And in the rare moments that he  _was_  left alone for a few seconds, when Gus had to pee and Dad was refilling on coffee or taking a splash bath in the bathroom sink (that man  _really_  needed to stop his fretting and go home and sleep and properly bathe, Shawn had decided, but nothing he said seemed to make his dad listen to him, which meant that something at least was the same), he didn't want to be alone, because he was left with his waking nightmares about his time with Stevens.

He hadn't gone back to sleep since he'd woken up, and he didn't want to, because as bad as the memories were when he was awake, he knew that he couldn't distract himself when he was sleeping, couldn't shrug off his fear with an off-kilter joke and a totally handsome and disarming grin (he was pretty sure he'd seen a couple of the nurses swoon already), and he would be completely left alone in his own mind, which was something he wanted nothing to do with. A lot of times, having a photographic memory was a great thing, but in this case, all he wanted to do was forget, but he couldn't help himself from remembering everything in full clarity, and whenever he closed his eyes, it was like it was happening all over again. He remembered the sleepless nights he'd had after being abducted by Longmore, and he actually found himself thinking fondly of them in comparison to what was coming next.

His physical pain wasn't terrible since they were keeping him doped up on drugs, but they'd taken him off the IV morphine and started giving him pain pills, so he hurt a little more than he did when he'd woken up. They would have kept him on the morphine, but he'd wanted to be lucid enough to give his statement when the detectives stopped by to get it. He needed to get all this over with as soon as possible.

He just needed this whole mess to blow over, even if it meant burying his feelings and acting like an ass, because it just needed to go away. He knew, though, as surely as he knew that Aaron Stevens and his strangled mockingbirds and twisted hatred were going to be haunting his dreams for the foreseeable future, that it wasn't going to be as simple as that this time.

In the meantime, he wouldn't sleep until he absolutely had to, and he'd do everything he could to drive his dad and Gus crazy, because that was a great distraction. And when Jules got here... well, he was dating Abigail, but Juliet had already stopped by to see him when he was unconscious a couple of times at least and had stayed the whole four-ish hours he'd been in the ER after the rescue, and Abigail had left him a teary phone message and said she'd be back from Uganda as soon as she could, and he couldn't help but remember when he'd seen Jules in the warehouse; he'd thought she was an angel and had wanted to kiss the frown right off her forehead...

But that wasn't fair. His dad had told Abigail that she didn't need to fly in immediately once he knew he was out of the woods. And Juliet had been part of the rescue. Of course she'd want to check up on him.

But Shawn kept seeing her at the drive-in movies, blue blouse perfectly complimenting her eyes and silky blonde hair, asking  _him_  out on a date, and then his telling her that he was with Abigail, and even though he really cared about Abigail, there was still something about Juliet that refused to leave his mind and heart.

So yeah, he didn't exactly know what he'd do once Juliet and Lassiter got there (other than riff on Lassie's suit or hair or general sour-patch kid sucking demeanor), but now wasn't the time to be sorting through his feelings, because morphine or not, his mind was still fuzzy from the medication, and he was exhausted, but he wasn't going to sleep...

* * *

Shawn was asleep when Juliet and Lassiter got to the hospital. It was about seven-thirty in the evening. They'd been loaded down with cases all day, but they'd finally had a chance to come down to the hospital. Juliet didn't know if he'd be up to giving his statement, but she'd convinced Lassiter to come along on the chance that he was, although she was really just wanting to see him. Truth was, she'd heard that Abigail hadn't jumped on a plane to the U.S. When she'd found out, and while she understood that Shawn was going to be okay and that Uganda was far away, she'd still felt bad for Shawn, that his girlfriend wasn't going to be there for him when he woke up. But she wanted to be there for him, even if Abigail couldn't, and it wasn't just because she was his friend and she'd been so closely involved in his rescue.

She was pretty disappointed to see that Shawn was conked out like he had been every other time she'd visited in the past couple of days, because she'd really been hoping to see him awake and vibrant, his usual self. He wasn't hooked up to as many machines as he had been before, and his color was a lot better, but his shoulder was still bandaged, his entire left arm in a cast and right knee bandaged. He looked sad, even in his sleep.

"Told you he wouldn't be awake," Lassiter said from beside her. "We should come back tomorrow."

Gus stood up from where he was sitting at the window seat. He sat down the book he was reading facedown to mark his page, and then shook his head. "No, you should stay," he said, stretching. "Mr. Spencer's gone to pick up Ms. Spencer, and I need to get something to eat, and he's been talking about seeing you all day, Juliet. He will probably wake up pretty soon." His voice sounded troubled as he remarked, "He wakes up every fifteen minutes or so."

Juliet frowned. Lassiter snapped, "We're not here to play babysitter, Guster. We came to get Shawn's statement, but if he's asleep, we'll just come back later."

"How—"

Whatever Gus was going to say was abruptly cut off as Shawn jerked awake with a hoarse shout, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat. He carefully moved his right arm, wincing as his shoulder shifted, and wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Breathing heavily, he finally croaked, "Holy crap." He then looked up, saw the detectives, looked very uncomfortable and actually a little embarrassed for a couple of moments before pasting on a lopsided grin and saying, "Hey, Jules."

Juliet smiled warmly, glad to see him awake. She'd be sure to ask Gus about the episode later, although she was pretty sure a nightmare was involved. She hadn't doubted he'd have them. She couldn't get the scene of his rescue out of her head, of the sight of Shawn hanging bloody and bruised from the ceiling by his broken and dislocated arms. "Hi, Shawn. Good to see you awake," she said as brightly as she could muster, and to her delight, a genuine smile lit up his eyes for the briefest moment.

"Well, you know, they didn't give me much of a choice at first," he pointed out. "If I would have been awake, I would've invoked the second amendment and refused being put into some kind of controlled coma."

"There's no such thing in the Constitution," Gus said, rolling his eyes.

"There is too a second amendment!" Shawn argued, and he seemed to actually be enjoying the back-and-forth, even though the haunted, off look in his eyes never truly faded. He was trying so hard to distract and protect himself. It broke Juliet's heart to see him hurting so much. "I know this because there is a first and there is a third, and generally, when there is a one and a three, there's a two somewhere in the middle."

"You're an idiot," Lassiter supplied. "There's nothing about the right to refuse a drugged coma, because if you're in a coma, you can't refuse anything." He paused, then added, "The second amendment is my favorite."

"Right. The right to shoot squirrels," Shawn deadpanned.

"Close. The right to bear arms." He patted his shoulder holster, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Against squirrels, and other pests." He gave Shawn a pointed look, annoyance on his face. Juliet was going to jab her elbow into his side for being so callous after everything Shawn had been through, but to her surprise, Shawn actually laughed. She realized that what Shawn needed more than anything was for things to be normal, and Lassiter threatening to shoot Shawn was pretty normal.

"So," Juliet put in, hating what she was about to do, but the sooner they got his statement, the better, and if he was able, then they should get it over with. "Do you feel like—?"

"Yeah, I'll do it," Shawn said, suddenly subdued, the lightheartedness deflating from him like air from a balloon. "Let's get it over with." When they just blinked at him, he brought his right hand to his bandaged temple with a wince. "Psychic, remember?"

Lassiter snorted, reaching into his coat pocket for his notebook and pen. "Right. And I'm here voluntarily."

Shawn smirked, then turned to Gus. "Go ahead and get something to eat, buddy," he said. "And not the cafeteria. Go to Red Robin and get a burger, and then sneak me back a shake and some fries."

"I'll stay here," Gus offered.

"Really, dude," Shawn said seriously. "You don't need to be here." Gus didn't look convinced, and he even looked a little hurt, realizing that Shawn didn't want him to hear his statement. "Gus," Shawn said. "We'll talk later, I promise. It's just..." He broke off, looking conflicted and more vulnerable than Juliet had ever seen him, and she just knew he was going to say something sad or emotional, assuring Gus that he just needed to get this over with, but then he concluded, "I just... I really need something other than the crap they serve here. I'm dying here, man."

"You've got a room full of pineapples, Shawn."

"And nobody will cut one for me."

"Because you just started eating solid food again, and the doctor doesn't want to risk the acid messing with your stomach."

"She just wants all the pineapples to herself. Don't tell me you didn't see her eyeing them when she came in here earlier."

"I just think she was trying to figure out how so many pineapples can fit into one hospital room," Gus countered dryly.

"Guys," Juliet said, stifling a grin at their silly antics, actually really happy to see Shawn engaging in this way with Gus, even if it was partly an act. "I think that Detective Lassiter and I would be able to do this a whole lot quicker if we talk to Shawn alone, if that's what he wants. Go and get something to eat, and we'll let you know if we need you."

Gus finally conceded, casting an anxious look back at Shawn, who just grinned devilishly and said in a stage whisper, "Don't forget the shake."

Gus shook his head, said, "We'll see," and promised to be back as soon as he could.

Juliet watched him go with a slight smile on his face, then turned back to Shawn. The humor had left his face. "All right," he said dully. "Let's do this."

* * *

"First," said Shawn, "I think I should give you my psychic revelation about the whole ordeal."

"We know what happened, and we know you know what happened because you were there," Lassiter said. "We don't need a contrived 'vision'; we just need to know what happened."

"Carlton," Juliet said softly.

Lassiter sighed. "Fine," he said. "Give us your 'revelation.'"

Shawn put his hand to his head, moving uncomfortably because of his shoulder. He had to lower it pretty soon into his breakdown, though. "Once upon a time, there was a really smart guy who had a great future ahead of him, but he got accused of a crime he didn't do and went to jail for twenty-five years before being eligible for parole, and it made him into a bitter and angry incarnation of the Iron Giant."

"But the Iron Giant was really sweet," Juliet felt compelled to put in.

"When he goes all nuclear-war mode," Shawn explained.

"Loved that part," Lassiter put in begrudgingly.

They both stared at him. "What?" he said. "I can't watch movies?"

"Anyway," Shawn said after a couple of seconds. "He blamed my father, who really had nothing to do with the case, but whose testimony was a big nail in the guy's coffin anyway. During the twenty-five years in prison, he concocted a plan based on his favorite book from college, which he then started acting upon several months after his release so that people wouldn't automatically suspect him. He planned on a big deal, drawing it out, even though he was working alone and it was a risk. But working alone didn't quite turn out well, for he got caught strangling poor mockingbirds for his game by an environmentalist, who he then killed, but wasn't able to get out of the woods without risk of detection.

"So he hid the body in the woods, hoping that no one would find it until well after his plan had gone into motion, but some hikers stumbled along the body the next day, so he had to speed things up. He started by putting those mockingbirds in front of places connected with my dad and I. Then he skipped the rest of the buildup because of time constraints due to the investigation on the murder, so he grabbed me, broke into Herman O'Dell's place – the guy who actually killed Alicia Tyler, and that one witness on Stevens' defense and Jim Morton, just to name a few – and dragged him back to his hideout, where he proceeded to murder O'Dell and lure my dad to conclude his plan."

He finished in a rush. His right hand, which had found its way back up to his temple again during the latter part of his speech, was lowered to the bed beside him. He seemed deflated, exhausted, his fingers now picking at the white blanket that covered his legs and torso. Even through the blankets, Juliet could see the lump where his bandaged knee was lying, useless. She shuddered to think what it looked like under the wrappings. She'd sprained her knee once in high school when she'd landed wrong after a handspring in cheerleading. It had swollen up, turned a rainbow of dark colors, and had taken nearly six weeks to heal. But this... a  _shattered_  kneecap? She was glad that Shawn was under enough medication to keep the pain down, and she wondered how he'd handled it so well when it had happened, when he'd been with Stevens. He hadn't had a choice, but maybe he had. He had fought back, from everything she'd heard, and he hadn't given up. Shawn was much braver than any of them, even Juliet herself, gave him credit for. She knew that her partner would never admit it, but even he would have to respect Shawn's courageous response to the horrible situation he'd been forced into, even if he wouldn't acknowledge it, even to himself.

"Jules?" She realized she'd been staring. She cleared her throat, looking around awkwardly, avoiding both his and her partner's eyes.

"Sorry," she stuttered. "We, uh, we had a lot of the basics figured out, actually, but we hadn't connected Carter Johnson's death exactly with the rest of it," she admitted.

"We would have," Lassiter put in quickly. "But we were kind of preoccupied chasing you all over the damn state." It was an exaggeration, but it fulfilled its purpose and breeched the subject that none of them really wanted to talk about. Shawn had distanced himself from the case, treating his synopsis like he would any of his other psychic revelations. It was a delay tactic, because even though he said he wanted to get it over with, she knew that he also wanted to avoid reliving his nightmare for them.

"Right," Shawn said awkwardly. He was stiller than she'd ever seen him before, which probably had something to do with two limbs being completely out of commission, but his fingers were fidgeting nervously at his side. "Guess you'll need to know the specifics now, right?"

"I'm sorry—" Juliet started, but Shawn cut her off.

"It's fine. Fine." She knew it wasn't, but she let it go, because he had taken a deep breath and was steeling himself to go through this a second time.

He started with his dad's phone call to him early the morning before last, ordering him to come and catch a cat that had left a dead bird on his porch. Despite his struggle with having to relive this, he started off pretty easily, even cracking a couple of lackluster jokes about his lazy, animal-harassing father. They let him do so without comment, knowing he was just trying to deal with this the only way he knew how. When he got to the part about setting the live trap, though, Juliet couldn't help herself from saying, "Oooh, so  _that's_  the story about the raccoon. I was wondering."

To her surprise and mild amusement, Shawn actually looked as horrified as she'd seen him at her words. "Raccoon? Where do those masked demons come into this?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "When we went to your father's house early this morning to check up on him, there was an angry raccoon in a cage in the front yard. We called animal control to come and get it."

"Wow," said Shawn. "I'd bet you anything Dad left it there so he could taunt me with the furry little bandit later. He's never understood my... aversion... to raccoons."

"Honestly, I don't get it either," Juliet admitted. "I think they're kinda cute."

"Until they rip out your eyeballs and eat them for dinner," Lassiter said darkly.

"See?" Shawn almost beamed, though the mirth still didn't fully reach his eyes. "Lassie gets it!"

"I'm still not afraid of them," Lassiter pointed out.

"That makes one of us," Shawn answered. Then he sighed, his eyes hardening as he tried to get his mind back on track again.

"We can take a break if you want," Juliet offered, seeing how pale he was. "Or we can come back tomorrow. Maybe you should rest. Maybe it's too soon."

Shawn just shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice had picked up a monotone timbre that she'd never witnessed in the enigmatic psychic. "That's when Gus called me about a murder in front of the Psych office – the second mockingbird. That's when I realized that there was something more going on, but before I had a chance to look into it, psychically or otherwise, I got the call from the chief about the environmentalist." He went through everything that had transpired at the station, which both of them already knew because they had been there, so it didn't take too terribly long. "I went back to my place after that, and I did some digging, some meandering in the psychic realm, and finally realized that there was something significant about the act of killing a mockingbird that had something to do with the book, but the spirits weren't in a particularly giving mood, so I went to the library."

He paused, his voice hoarse, reaching his arm out pitifully for the cup of water on the table beside his bed. The movement must have hurt his shoulder, and it tugged at the IV lines in his arm. He hissed slightly in pain, and Juliet jumped to her feet, grabbing the cup and gently pressing it into his hand. "Shawn," she said seriously, looking into his green eyes from above a clear plastic cup of water, which both of their hands were still touching either side of the cup, their fingertips meeting and brushing against each other lightly. It was like an electric charge shot through her hand. Realizing that they had been staring at each other, she quickly released the cup and stepped back, fixing him with a chiding look. "Let us help you," she said calmly.

"I can handle it," Shawn muttered, slowly and shakily lifting the straw to his mouth and taking a couple of sips of water. Even though he usually tried to con everyone (especially Gus) into doing things for him on a regular basis, this was different. He was being his quirky and annoying self, but now, when he was actually vulnerable and helpless, he felt like he had something to prove, that he wasn't the weak and pitiful victim. He didn't want to be pitied. Juliet had seen this kind of reaction many times in her years on the force, but seeing Shawn like this hurt her in a deeper way than usual.

"I know you can," she conceded. "And so can I."

Frowning slightly, Shawn handed the cup back to her, and she set it on the table. His eyes stayed locked on her as she moved, unnervingly serious. He finally broke the stare and went back to glowering at the covers and picking at the threads with his fingertips. Lassiter had watched the exchange in silence, an unreadable expression on his face.

Shawn described his visit to the library, calling Mrs. Moore the most kick-ass librarian ever invented, even if her get well gift had kind of inadvertently sucked.

"I called Gus when I got back to my place," he went on, and his voice was soft and subdued as he methodically went through Stevens' attack on him in his apartment, the fight, and then getting knocked out. "When I woke up, I was hanging from the ceiling in the storage building," he said. He cleared his throat, refusing to even look in their direction now as he began to relive the torture. Juliet felt hot anger rise up from somewhere deep within her as she listened to how Stevens had promised Shawn water if he would play along and prove he was psychic, and how he'd not only blatantly broken that promise, but had followed up with calling Henry so that he could torture Shawn over the phone.

Shawn spoke of the metal gavel that had smashed his arm and then his knee after he'd accidentally said his kidnapper's first name. The way that Stevens had dragged O'Dell with him and then shot him in the head in front of Shawn, then put the "evidence" on Shawn. His voice was even and his tone didn't waver. It sounded like he was reading off the most boring grocery list ever written. But his semi-good arm told another story, as it moved and picked and shifted anxiously from its place on the mattress. Juliet felt nauseated at the sheer level of detail Shawn was able to recall about his torture, at least before he started slipping in and out of consciousness. He remembered bits and pieces of what had transpired when his father had arrived, but when he got to Henry's fight with Stevens, Shawn had been pretty out of it.

"I was kinda half awake," he said dully. "But somehow I knew something had changed. I managed to make out the general idea of what was going on in front of me, even though everything was still really confusing and I was really out of it. Stevens had pistol-whipped my dad and was going to shoot him through the head, just like he did O'Dell. And I..." He paused, brows furrowed slightly underneath the bandage on his head. "I don't know what happened, really. I just knew I couldn't let him kill my dad. So I figured out that if I started to swing my legs back and forth, I could get some pretty good momentum going, even with my screwed up arms. Aaron's back was to me, and he was really focused on Dad, so I guess he didn't hear me in time. I kicked him in the side of the head, I think, as hard as I could. He fell over, I think, and then..." He sighed in frustration, eyes still averted. "And then, I don't remember. The pain was so bad at that point that I couldn't hold on anymore, not even to see if I'd given Dad a chance. And then the next thing I remember is waking up to seeing Jules over me, which made waking much more pleasant, by the way. And, uh, I think you know the rest a lot better than I do, because I'm pretty sure I passed out again after that." He wondered if he had dreamed his father's holding him close, promising that he was never going to let anything happen to him again, the sorrow and tenderness in his voice foreign but not unpleasant. Comforting.

He cleared his throat again.

Juliet exchanged a quick, meaningful glance with her partner, mind spinning from everything that had been revealed during this nearly forty-five minute interview.

"Um," said Shawn quietly, a bit of life returning to his voice, although he sounded completely spent. "Are we done? Because I'm not going to lie. Even though I love talking to you, Jules, and even though Lassie's a great conversationalist, this meet and greet was  _not_  the highlight of my day."


	16. If Real Men Don't Cry, Then What Does That Make Us?

Carlton Lassiter knew that Shawn Spencer made things up on a regular basis. For instance, he made up being psychic. Lassiter still hadn't figured out what his secret was, but it wasn't magic or voodoo or whatever the hell Spencer claimed. He also enjoyed altering stories about his 'heroics' in order to make himself the center of attention. He made asinine comments that didn't have anything to do with anything at all, acting as if they were completely true. At any other time, if Spencer had spun such a tale, he would have scoffed and called Shawn an attention-hog and demanded to know the true story.

But he knew that Spencer had told the truth this time. Of course, the bits about investigating psychically and communing with the spirits were utter bull crap, but Lassiter had come to expect this from the 'psychic' by this point. But the story of his short-lived but surprisingly well-executed fight with Stevens in the dry cleaners, and of the way he had stood his ground – well, metaphorically, at least – and hadn't become a groveling mess in his predicament, and especially of his bravery and resilience when he had knowingly put himself in agonizing pain, aggravating his already severe injuries, and behaving in a way that would have been difficult for someone _with_  a badge... Well, for the first time since he'd met the fake psychic, Lassiter had no idea what to think about him or how to respond to him.

But he had to say something, and he couldn't just leave without letting Spencer know that he had done well, because even though the idiot drove him up the wall on a daily basis, Lassiter was impressed by his response to the situation. He had very likely saved both himself and his father with his actions, because Stevens could have very well shot Henry and Shawn before the rescuers had gotten there and shot the door open.

He opened his mouth to speak, but O'Hara beat him to it. Her eyes were wide. "Shawn, I..." She blinked a couple of times. Lassiter fought the urge to roll his eyes. He'd seen the looks exchanged between his partner and Spencer, and he knew from previous experience that they both had feelings for each other, and he didn't even begin to try to understand the politics between O'Hara, Spencer and the pretty brunette that Spencer had somehow conned into dating him, but this was just getting ridiculous. "I thought that your escaping from a trunk with a gunshot wound was impressive, and jumping from the back of a speeding truck onto the hood of Lassiter's car was pretty astounding, though I never got around to telling you. Didn't want your head to swell up."

Shawn grinned half-heartedly. "You were right," he said. Lassiter wondered if he'd heard right; was he admitting to having an ego, that O'Hara was right to not inflate his already too-big head? His next words confirmed that some things never changed. "It  _was_  impressive  _and_  astounding." Of course. "But I'm not sure where you're going with this... That happened months ago."

"I know, but I'm just saying that... well, I don't know if there are many trained officers who would have responded the way that you did. You were in a hell I can't even begin to imagine, and went above and beyond anything that would have been expected of you." Shawn blinked, obviously not having been ready for such a heartfelt, genuine admission. And judging by the stunned look on Juliet's face, she hadn't quite been expecting it, either.

"Um," Spencer said, and although he looked uncomfortable and his face was slightly flushed, he said, "I just did what I had to." A beat. "But thanks."

Feeling compelled to break up the surmounting awkwardness piling up in the hospital room, Lassiter stood with a grunt. "Well," he said briskly. "I think we've got what we needed. If you think of anything else, let us know. And we know where to find you if we have any more questions."

"Do you?" Shawn asked, jerking his unreadable gaze from Juliet's face and fixing Lassiter with one of his insufferable grins that said he was up to some sort of mischief – those were the grins that the head detective had learned to become very,  _very_  leery of since meeting Spencer. "Wasn't going to mention this, but I think I'll be able to finagle my way out of here in no time. That Dr. Garfield is a bit of a pushover, don't you think? I might even be back at my apartment after they fix my knee tomorrow."

Lassiter hadn't missed the sound of the door opening as Spencer talked. He hoped beyond hope that the person who walked through the door and into the obnoxious ramblings of Spencer was...

"A pushover?"

Shawn blinked, taken off guard. He had been distracted and hadn't noticed Dr. Garfield entering the room, hadn't even heard her soft knock, which showed how out of it the fake psychic really was, because – and this was something else that annoyed Lassiter to no end – he seemed to notice everything.

The pretty dark-haired woman stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest and a playful grin teasing her lips. "Just for that, I'm going to recommend keeping you here for at least an extra four days," she teased. "Maybe five, if you don't stop trying to recruit people into sneaking fast food to you."

Shawn's mouth fell open. "How?"

Dr. Garfield smirked. "Mr. Guster and your parents are actually right outside, and your friend has a large bag of fries and a strawberry shake that he claims he wasn't going to give to you against my orders..." Her eyes sparkled, but she didn't give in to Spencer's pleading look, which pleased Carlton greatly. About time he learned that he wasn't always going to get what he wanted. "Sorry, but I'm serious about keeping my patients healthy, because that's kind of my job," she said, shaking her head. "You were in critical condition yesterday morning. You just got off of IV nutrients this morning, and you were slightly malnourished and very dehydrated, and I don't think that your stomach is going to be able to handle Red Robin anytime soon."

Spencer pouted as the doctor walked over and started checking him over, while Lassiter and Juliet stood back awkwardly, not sure if they should take their leave or wait until the doctor was finished. "In all seriousness," Dr. Garfield said as she worked, checking Shawn's arm and knee, pressing lightly at his shoulder, and feeling his ribs gently, causing gasps of pain from the consultant. Spencer had been so busy trying to shield himself in humor and acting like an idiot that Carlton had briefly forgotten how badly injured he really was. He was on drugs, yes, which probably helped, but he'd been beaten badly, and he was still fighting off the infection, and his shattered kneecap hadn't been operated on yet, and even when he was joking, there was still this look in his eyes, haunted and terrified. Lassiter suddenly felt an unwelcome but not entirely unwarranted pang of guilt, but he quickly shoved it away.

"In all seriousness," the doctor was saying, "if everything goes smoothly with your knee surgery tomorrow, and if we can get you started on some physical therapy and get that infection completely squashed – temperature holding at no higher than 98.6, no more swelling and redness – and you respond well to your treatment, you'll probably be out of here in a little less than two weeks. Maybe a week and a half."

Shawn's eyes darkened at this news and Lassiter could sympathize. The thought of spending nearly fourteen days in a hospital, laid up with multiple broken bones and no way of getting around or even to the restroom without enlisting help, was not a fate he'd wish even upon, well, even upon someone as exasperating as Spencer.

When Shawn didn't respond, the doctor patted his arm gently and said, "It won't be so bad. We'll get you started on PT within the week, and you'll be well on your way to being your old self within no time. But you're going to have to follow my orders, rest, and not over-exert yourself before I say it's okay."

"I know, I know," Spencer mumbled petulantly, like a child who was being chastised for eating cookies before dinner.

She smiled. "Cheer up." She turned to the detectives. "Are we done here?" she asked. "Because my patient is exhausted, and he needs rest and pain medicine, and I wasn't all that convinced that taking his statement so soon was such a good idea in the first place." She raised one delicate but amazingly powerful eyebrow.

Lassiter dipped his head. "We're done. C'mon, O'Hara, we need to stop by the station and see if McNab has that paperwork for us – he says hi, and that the pineapple with the smiley face drawn on it is from him and Frannie; they'll be by again sometime tomorrow after you get out of surgery." Lassiter quickly remembered, and his words brought a tired grin to Spencer's face. Juliet nodded and smiled at Shawn.

"Get better," she said. "Let me know if you need anything."

Shawn nodded, looking at her with that half-dazed expression again, which nauseated the head detective.

"All right, let's go," he ordered. He turned to leave, then spun back slightly to face Shawn. Awkwardly, he shifted and said, "And, you did good, Spencer." It wasn't much, but Shawn's face lit up anyway at the praise and Lassiter rolled his eyes. "But you're still an idiot."

"And you're still a Lassie-face," Shawn reassured him. "So we're good."

* * *

Henry sat beside Shawn's bed while his son slept. He'd been given some pretty heavy pain medication and had been knocked out for quite some time after he'd given his statement, which had wiped him out. To say that Henry was annoyed that he'd gone and given it while he was gone to pick up Madeline would be an understatement, because as much as it would pain him to have to hear it again, he needed to. He was Shawn's father, and he hadn't always been the father of the year, but it was his job to be there for his son when he was hurting and Shawn was most definitely hurting now. But he'd probably taken advantage of Henry's not being there when the detectives arrived so that he wouldn't have an audience. Henry and a worried and exhausted Madeline had met up with Gus at the nurses' station after finally making it to the hospital from the airport, and had been told that Shawn had insisted on doing this alone.

Madeline sat beside him, watching him sleep, her eyes misty. Henry glanced from his ex-wife to his son. He hadn't watched Shawn sleep in a long time. Not since he'd been six years old and he'd developed an awful case of pneumonia, when Henry would slip into his room at two or three in the morning to check on him, watching him sleep and reassuring himself he was okay. Shawn hadn't been in the hospital long enough to do much sleeping for the gunshot wound, so that didn't count. He realized how young his son still looked when he slept. His eyes traveled across the bruises and casts and bandages, and a deep sadness ate at his chest, momentarily swallowing the consuming anger that had been burning in him since this whole thing had started.

Madeline's voice startled him out of his reverie. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"That he'd be really freaked out if he knew we were sitting here watching him sleep," Henry said dryly. It wasn't a total lie, because the thought had just occurred to him.

His ex-wife smiled slightly. "Well, he scared the hell out of us, so if we want to watch over him while he sleeps, he's just going to have to deal with it." Henry snorted slightly. "What are you really thinking?"

There was no pulling the wool over the eyes of a psychologist, especially one who knew him so well.

"This shouldn't have happened," he finally said, and his voice was close to trembling. "No one should have to worry about someone going after their kid because of something they did. I can't help but think..." He shook his head.

"You're right," Maddie said, and he looked at her in surprise. "It shouldn't have happened. And you can bet your ass that I want to rip the heart out of the twisted SOB that did this to my baby." There was fire in her eyes and venom in her voice. "But it's not your fault. I don't know the whole story – yet – but even if it  _had_  had something to do with a case you had investigated, that wouldn't have been your fault. You did your job, a little too well and a little too much at times, maybe, but you taught Shawn how to take care of himself and helped turn him into the man he is today, and thanks to him, to both of you, you're both alive."

Henry sat in stunned silence, not sure what to make of her speech. He'd been expecting anger and accusation, and when it hadn't come during the ride to the hospital – that had all been her demanding answers and his trying to give watered-down explanations – he'd thought the storm would come later. He deserved it, he'd thought. He'd poured too much into his job. He'd pushed Shawn too much, driven him away. He'd testified in court, and Shawn had nearly died because of it. He didn't want thanks or comfort; he wanted someone to be angry with him, because he was angry with himself, almost as angry as he was at Stevens, even.

Both sat in silence for a long moment, and then the silence was broken, and not by either of them. They both jumped slightly when Shawn's tired voice spoke up, groggy from medication and sleep. "Dad..." he said softly. "I'm..." he yawned, "...proud of you. Mom's right. Don't be a stubborn old mule and just accept that you're a pretty damn good dad, all right?"

He then mumbled something muffled about pineapples and fell silent again.

"Do you think he was awake that whole time?" Maddie asked, her smile wide and bright.

"Maybe. Or he could've just woken up and stopped to eavesdrop," Henry said, his heart pounding and mind spinning at what had just transpired between himself and his son. It was so utterly unexpected, but somehow it helped him realize that yes, there were going to be nightmares and hurdles, lots of physical therapy and probably counseling, but that they were going to be okay. Shawn wouldn't let this crush him. And when everything tried to start crumbling, Henry would make sure he'd stand by his son's side and help him hold up the walls.

"Don't know if he was asleep then, or if he's even fallen back to sleep now," Henry said gruffly, "but I hope he knows that I love him. Love you, kid."

He didn't miss the slight lift of the corner of Shawn's mouth at his words, and for the first time in days, Henry relaxed, just thankful to be surrounded by the people he loved, and knowing everything was going to be all right.

* * *

It wasn't until nearly three days later that Henry actually got a chance to sit down and talk to Shawn, just the two of them, for more than ten minutes at a time. This was something that both of them desperately needed, yet were both extremely nervous about, despite their 'moment' a few days ago.

Shawn had been taken into surgery the next day for his knee, and he'd been in surgery for nearly four and a half hours, and then he'd been in recovery, and then he'd been so doped up on drugs that he couldn't stay awake or coherent long enough to string two words together, and he slept deeply and soundly because of the medication. This was a relief to everyone, because in the short few days he'd been aware, every time he drifted to sleep he was woken by nightmares.

The day after that, his fever had spiked a little bit, causing some concern, but they'd gotten it back down fairly easily and the infection, though still there, was contained. But he'd been groggy, but unfortunately, he'd once again started waking frequently, sometimes violently, from nightmares. Someone was always by his side when he slept, knowing that when he woke in the throes of a dream, reliving his time in the 'courtroom' with Aaron, he'd need someone to help calm him down, to remind him he was safe, that he wasn't in that storage building anymore.

The third day, today, they'd started physical therapy on his right shoulder. It must have been extremely painful, and when they were finished, Shawn was sweaty, pale and looked like he was going to be sick. But he'd finally – thankfully – fallen to sleep about thirty minutes ago, and he hadn't woken up screaming yet, so that was a good sign, Henry thought.

Gus was taking care of some things at the Psych office. They were trying to figure out what was going to become of the agency while Shawn recovered, if they were going to close temporarily or if they would still try to work occasional cases from a distance, looking at files and more background stuff. Shawn, of course, had not been fond of either idea, because while the thought of closing down Psych until he was back on his feet was unthinkable, sitting around reading and doing actual work behind a desk was almost as bad. Gus was trying to get some things done on the business end, because no matter what they decided, bills still needed to be paid and the office maintained.

Henry had finally managed to convince Madeline to go home – his home – for a well-needed rest. He'd actually slept some the past few days, and although his own injuries hurt more now that they'd had time to settle in and start aching, he really did feel a lot better, and now he'd wanted his ex-wife to do the same. She'd finally agreed to go to the house, rest, and come back the next morning.

So it was just Henry and Shawn, and Shawn was sleeping. Henry half-wanted Shawn to wake up so that they could get this over with. They needed to talk, they needed closure or  _something_ , because they had been through a tragedy together and they couldn't leave this hanging. Despite what Shawn had said the other night, Henry still harbored a ridiculous amount of guilt and regret.

Shawn's eyes snapped open. Henry leaned forward, taken aback at the sudden change, but when he looked at his son's face, hazel eyes glassy and unfocused, wide with terror, he knew that Shawn wasn't here. He was back at the building with Stevens.

Shawn's breathing was hard and labored, and one of the machines was starting to beep more rapidly. Henry quickly reached out, put a firm hand on Shawn's lower right arm, and said, "Shawn." Shawn continued to stare ahead, and Henry's heart broke, but he moved his hand to cup the side of Shawn's bruised but healing face, gently running his thumb across his cheekbone. He wasn't used to this kind of interaction with Shawn – he hardly ever even  _hugged_  the kid as it was – but ever since the Stevens fiasco, he'd found that the best way to ease Shawn's nightmares and calm him down was by physical connection. And it wasn't awkward at all, not like he'd thought it would be. Shawn may have been a grown man – well, a facsimile of one, anyway; age  _was_  only a number, after all – but he was still Henry's son. His child. And he'd come so, so close to losing him, to losing everything. And if Shawn needed his father's touch, a gentle word, to help him out of the darkness that was eating up his mind, then Henry would do whatever it took.

"Wake up, son. It's me. It's Dad. You're okay."

Shawn blinked, his breathing still heavy and hitched, but he glanced around, dazed, as if seeing the room for the first time. His slightly more focused eyes met Henry's own worried ones for a moment, and then Henry quickly sat back, removing his hand from Shawn's face and putting it in his lap. Comforting Shawn wasn't awkward, but sometimes the aftermath was. He figured that this was because they were both men, and beyond that, men who weren't exactly good with feelings and emotions.

Henry watched intently as Shawn calmed himself down, eyes still wide but breathing evening out. He coughed, and Henry saw that his face was reddening slightly beneath the bruising. "Sorry," Shawn muttered.

Henry sat back, satisfied that Shawn was okay – as okay as one could be in his situation – and said, "You have nothing to be sorry for, Shawn."

Shawn scowled. "I let him get in my head, Dad. I let him into my dreams, and he's still winning even though he's behind bars. I just..." He sighed heavily and suddenly became preoccupied by a loose thread on his blanket.

"Shawn, look at me," Henry ordered. When Shawn didn't respond, only picked at the string, Henry said it again, stronger this time. "Look at me, Shawn."

Shawn slowly lifted his head, and the pain in his eyes nearly took Henry's breath away. "I know what you're feeling," he said slowly, trying to think of the best words to say to help his son. "You think you're weak because you're having nightmares. You think you should be able to handle it and just get over it, because you're alive and he shouldn't get in your head."

Shawn shrugged half-heartedly with one shoulder – the recently dislocated one – and then winced in pain.

"Guess what, kid? I've seen a lot of things as a cop and then a detective. And I know you've seen some crap, too, but some of the calls I've taken, some of the things I've seen, I never told you about, never mentioned it. You thought that the unsolved Veronica Towne murder would have kept you up at night?" He shook his head. "I've seen things that have given me nightmares, and these things didn't even happen to  _me_. So if some sicko targets you, and if he... if you're the victim, doesn't that sound like just as much of a reason, if not more, to lose sleep? It's not weakness, Shawn. It's trauma. He's not winning, and he won't win, because I know you're stronger than that. But you've got to stop thinking there's something wrong with you because you're scared and hurt."

"I'm not scared," Shawn said petulantly.

"Bull. Quit denying it, own up to the fact that you are traumatized and terrified – rightfully so – and stop trying to pretend that you're okay, because it's going to take you that much longer to get through this."

Shawn pursed his lips, looking like he wanted to say something, but he held back, eyes troubled.

Henry gave a soft huff as he moved slightly in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position with all his aches and pains.

Shawn regarded him quietly for a moment, and then asked, "How are you holding up, Dad? He did a number on you, didn't he?"

Henry grunted. "I got in a couple of good hits too."

Shawn cocked his head. "I don't really remember much of the boxing match," he said slowly, "other than the fact that I was playing the part of that giant beanbag that hangs from the ceiling in gyms—"

"It's called a punching bag, Shawn," Henry said tersely, not liking what seemed to be a flippant reference to what he'd gone through but knowing it was one of the only defense mechanisms Shawn knew.

"Aptly named," his son said darkly. "Anyway, I don't remember a whole lot of what happened after you escaped." His eyes traveled to Henry's other hand, the one that was wrapped tightly in gauze with his thumb extended in a perpetual thumbs-up. "Sorry about your thumb."

"Why? It got me loose, didn't it? You'd rather I'd stayed a captive audience?"

Shawn winced and Henry cursed himself. With Shawn and his stubbornness, it was so easy to fall into his usual critical, sarcastic and sniping tones, just because it was familiar and it was one of  _his_ coping mechanisms. "I'm sorry, Shawn."

Shawn shook his head. "Nah. It's just... you broke your own  _thumb_ for me, Dad. That's pretty intense."

Henry looked his son dead in the eye, completely serious as he said, "It was the least I would have done, kid. I did what I had to do, to get that..." he hesitated, struggling to find a word vile enough to describe Stevens, "that...  _man_... away from you." He couldn't come up with a foul enough word, so he'd settled for saying 'man' in a really disgusted tone. "I would have done it sooner, but until he unlocked one set of the cuffs, I didn't have the leverage."

"Like I said, you broke your own bones for me. I'm not complaining."

Henry smiled slightly. "Yeah, well, you weren't so bad yourself. How the hell did you manage to knock Stevens out like that?"

Shawn got a distant look for a long moment, and Henry wondered if he'd gone too far in mentioning the man's name or referencing Shawn's condition at the time, but then Shawn seemed to snap out of it. "Not sure," he admitted. "I just realized he was about to shoot you. Don't know where I found the strength, but I did what I had to do. You were always telling me that as a kid, right? 'Do what you gotta do, Shawn, stop complaining, suck it up, and just do it.'"

He said this in what was supposed to have been an impression of his father, but he sounded ridiculous, like a constipated Popeye. "I don't talk like that, Shawn."

"Agree to disagree. But the point is, I don't really know what happened, but it did." His face was slightly flushed, whether from exertion or embarrassment, Henry wasn't sure. "Can we leave it at that, please?"

Henry watched Shawn for a moment, the way his Adam's apple bobbed beneath a noose-shaped bruise, and for a moment all he could see was that split second before Lassiter had fired his gun, when the rope around Shawn's neck had gone taut. Thank God Stevens hadn't tightened that noose to snap his neck first thing, or even with Lassiter's quick shooting, it would have been too late.

"Dad?"

Henry cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah," he said gruffly. "But if you need to talk, I'm here, your mom, Gus..."

"I know, Dad. And thanks for saving me." He looked seriously at his father. "And stop blaming yourself, all right? It's not your fault. Everything's not all about you, you know?"

Henry smirked and rolled his eyes. "Only you would see me being selfish in all of this."

"No," Shawn said, completely genuine. "I'm just saying that it wasn't your fault. You did what was right, and someone else made a choice in response, but you didn't cause this."

Henry fought against the stinging that was suddenly at the corners of his eyes and the aching at the back of his throat. "I know you don't remember a whole lot," he said. "But what I did... he made me declare you guilty. I sentenced you—"

Shawn shook his head again. "No. You did what you had to, Dad. I'm sure that whatever he would've done if you hadn't 'condemned' me in 'court' wouldn't have been too pleasant for either of us, am I right?"

Henry heard Stevens' voice in his head, telling him that if he didn't go by the evidence, he'd start shooting Shawn.  _Maybe a toe next time_. He hadn't had a choice, and he'd used the moment as a distraction to escape, but still, the disgust he felt with himself at what had ultimately been sentencing his son to death—

Shawn brought him out of his dark reverie with a sharp, "Dad!"

Henry's head snapped up, and it wasn't until he lifted it that he realized it had sunk into his hands. "Shawn, I—"

"Please, Dad. Just... stop. Stop beating yourself up. I meant what I said the other night. I'm proud of you, and you saved me, and we're both going to make it through this, all right? But I can't..." He took a deep breath, and Henry knew that whatever he was about to say was hard for him to admit. "I can't do it by myself, Dad, and even though Gus and Jules and Mom want to help, they don't understand. No one else can really understand what I'm feeling but you, and I need you to be strong for me, Dad."

Henry sat in stunned silence for a moment after Shawn's speech. Shawn had never been one to willingly ask for help, or to even admit that he  _needed_  help, but this experience had shifted something in their relationship. For the first time in years, it was as if they were truly seeing one another for the first time.

Swallowing thickly, trying to get his damned emotions under control, Henry replied, "I'll try, Shawn, but you're a lot stronger than you know, son. And I'm proud of you too."

Shawn smiled genuinely, even as his eyes grew heavier. "Really, Dad? It's... nice to hear you say..."

His words drifted off into a sleepy mumble. Henry watched him fall back asleep and thought that he looked a bit more at peace than he had before. Henry knew that even though they both had plenty of demons ahead of them to face, there was a link, a bond between them now that had been forged in the fires of adversity, and he knew then that they would strengthen each other in the difficult times to come.

They were still going to argue and bicker and pick at each other, he knew that as surely as he knew that Shawn was going to make it through this, because with his and Shawn's contrasting personalities and attitudes, there was no way they were ever going to get along perfectly. But then again, what father and son did?

What was important now was that they had come through this alive, and they would eventually begin to heal, and then they would be stronger than they had been and they had a new respect for one another that had never been there before.

"Love you, kid," he said softly. "You did good."


	17. Epilogue: To Resuscitate a Mockingbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed and thanks for all the support! Please let me know what you thought! :) Once more, I don't own Merlin, TKAM, or any of the other movies/books mentioned in this fic!

_Eight Weeks Later_

Shawn sat in the Psych office in his desk chair, using his left leg to move the rolling chair back and forth as he poured over the file the chief had dropped by earlier. A heavy brace, ugly but necessary, was on his knee, and his left arm was encased in a bright green cast from his hand to his shoulder, held close to his chest with a sling. Every single inch of the cast had been marked up with Sharpie, so much so that it almost looked black instead of green. A big pineapple, ugly and awkward, was on the front of the cast, and it took up quite a bit of room. That was where Shawn had attempted to sign his own cast shortly after regaining the use of his right arm and shoulder. It was a clumsy job, but it could have been worse, and he was proud. How many people could say they'd signed their own cast, and with a depiction of delicious flavor, no less?

He was progressing very well, according to his doctor and physical therapist, and although he still had a long way to go with both his arm and leg, he was actually fairly mobile with the use of a crutch, and while he couldn't over-exert himself or do anything even mildly dangerous (A.K.A. interesting), he was still able to help out in investigations. Psych had technically been "closed" temporarily the past two months, and would probably stay that way until Shawn was able to truly come back to work in another few months, but he was still doing some consulting and had helped tie up several challenging cases, even in his physical state.

He'd stayed with his dad the first two and a half weeks after his release from the hospital, but once they had both been about ready to pull their hair out at each other's antics (metaphorically, of course, because Shawn's dad didn't have enough hair to pull out), and once the doctor and therapist had approved it, he'd moved back into his apartment, but someone was over almost all of the time to help him out if he needed it, and Gus had gotten into the habit of staying a couple of nights a week, just to hang out he said, but Shawn knew that it was also to make sure that Shawn was really okay. Shawn did appreciate it, since it always helped to have his best friend on hand when he woke up screaming from a particularly brutal nightmare – which had happened quite a few times in the last three and a half weeks of being semi-back on his own. He still had the occasional nightmare, but thanks to his friends and family, who had really shown how vital they were to his survival, he was starting to heal emotionally, too. He still didn't like mockingbirds very much, and he got nervous in courtroom settings, but he was working on it, and he was making a rapid recovery.

He'd actually had a rather profound revelation about his emotional and physical healing, and he'd shared it with Gus and Juliet last night over Hawaiian pizza. What made it so awesome was that it fit into the whole  _To Kill a Mockingbird_  motif that Aaron had twisted to his own purposes for evil, but Shawn had found a way to turn it back for good. "He wanted to kill a mockingbird," he'd said seriously, and Jules and Gus had looked at him with wide eyes, like he was a glass doll about to break (they'd been doing that a lot since the whole nightmare, even though he'd told them numerous times to stop hovering, he was fine – truth was, sometimes he needed to know they were there, paranoid as they were; they helped keep the darkness away). "But he didn't. Because of me, and my innate survival skills, he didn't kill a single mockingbird."

"Uh," Gus had said hesitantly. "He did, Shawn. He killed three of them actually."

"Gus, don't be the plastic tip on the end of my shoelace."

"It's called an aglet."

"I know.  _Phineas and Ferb_  marathon yesterday, whaaat?"

"Anyway?" Juliet had prompted, a cute smile forming at the corners of her mouth as she reached for another slice of heavenly pineapplely goodness. She'd figured out that this was probably not on the road to being a serious Shawn moment, although there had been a significant increase in those moments the past eight weeks, for obvious reasons. They were becoming a bit less frequent with every passing day, though.

"I was talking about metaphorically, Gus. Since you love that book so much, you should  _know_  that the killing of a mockingbird is equated with the destruction of something innocent."

"Right. And you were innocent in the whole thing, and the whack-job went after you. Ergo, killing a mockingbird."

"But he didn't destroy me, Gus! Don't you see? He knocked out my mockingbird, sure. He put me out of commission for a while. He hurt me, he hurt my dad, and he did some serious damage. I'll admit it. But. I'm going to be okay, yeah? I mean, I'm already making jokes about woodpeckers, and we all know that they are the closest relative of the mockingbird!"

"No, they're not," Gus and Juliet had said in unison.

"Just hear me out. This is what I've figured out. Maybe you're right. Technically, Stevens  _did_  kill a mockingbird with what he did to me. But I'm recovering, I'm going to come out even better and more attractive than ever – the ladies can't resist a manly scar," he'd added with a wink to Juliet, and to his delight, she'd blushed slightly.

Gus still didn't seem to be following. "So what you're saying is…?"

"He killed a mockingbird, but that mockingbird's about to be recessitated... rusticated... rec... brought back to life. Just slap those paddles on its feathery little chest and  _boom!_  My mockingbird is alive and making beautiful music again!"

Gus had blinked a couple of times and had then said, "It's _resuscitated._ But you know what, Shawn, that actually almost made sense."

"I get it," Juliet said, beaming. "It's a weird way of putting it, but I get it. And I'm glad you're starting to come to terms with what happened. I don't know if I could have done it in such a short amount of time. I think I'd still be a total mess."

"Well, that would never happen, because I'd never let anything like that happen to you, ever, Jules," Shawn had said seriously. He knew that his tone and eyes had been haunted, because for the shortest of seconds, he was back in the building, hanging from the ceiling, being beaten by a crazed ex-scholar for revenge. He'd added, "Or you, Gus," because he didn't want Gus to feel left out, even though he knew this already.

She'd smiled and reached over to squeeze his hand affectionately – or at least he hoped it was out of affection and not just pity or comfort, but he'd take what he could get at this point. At any rate, the physical contact, no matter how brief, was refreshing, and it helped pull his mind away from the past, where his mind still wanted to get trapped sometimes. It was because of moments like these, moments with his dad and Gus and Jules and Mom, that he had kept his sanity and had started to overcome the monsters that plagued him. Juliet was especially welcome to help him feel better any time. He wasn't entirely sure on their standing at this point, but he wasn't going to argue at the gesture. Gus had shot him an approving grin and thumbs up from beside Juliet.

He'd seen Abigail a couple of times since his kidnapping. She'd flown in as soon as she could, about four days into his twelve-day hospital stay. He'd been happy to see her, and he still cared a lot about her, but things had seemed a bit strained and different. They hadn't really settled anything one way or another, but he felt that they parted ways a week later with a mutual understanding of "we'll see what happens," which was fine with him, because he was still trying to sort out his feelings for Juliet, which had always been there since the first time he saw her in the diner, but which had grown so much more during the times that she came to visit him, to watch movies or debate the finer points of what made a good eighties flick, pigging out on pizza with him and Gus... She'd been an amazing friend, and he was falling for her more every time he saw her. He knew he'd have to come to some sort of decision concerning her and his feelings soon, but right now, he had a lot of other things on his mind.

Like the fact that Gus was coming by to pick him up for dinner at his dad's tonight, and that he was still trying to figure out the link between the missing electronics from Best Buy and the dead grocer found in a crate of his own cabbage heads – he knew there was one, but it was a bit more difficult to do his psychic thing when he was limited in his mobility... Maybe he could convince Gus that they needed to stop by the grocery store, the one the guy had been found at (though Gus didn't necessarily need to know that), under the guise that they needed to pick up something to bring to dinner. He technically wasn't supposed to be out and about at crime scenes, but he was getting to be a pro with the crutch, even with the full-arm cast on the other side...

The door opened and Shawn spun around, his heart beating wildly in his chest for a moment at the sudden intrusion. He was still a bit jumpy, which was understandable, considering what he'd been through, though he hated feeling that way.

Gus apologized quickly. "Sorry. Just me. Keep forgetting to warn you."

He plopped down on the couch, snagging a handful of Skittles from the bowl on the coffee table. Shawn scowled. "I'm fine. I was practicing my surprised reaction for when the chief calls me to the station so that Lassie can personally put a medal of honor around my neck for solving this case."

"You solved it?" Gus asked, choosing to ignore the ridiculous excuse and even more ridiculous assumption that Lassiter would ever do anything of the kind, even by direct order of the chief.

Shawn frowned. "Not yet. But I'm close. Speaking of which, I think my dad needs some greens or sprouts or something from the store..."

"I know what you're trying to do, Shawn."

"C'mon, Gus. Just for a minute. I'll let you color in the pineapple with a yellow paint pen," he bribed. Gus had been complaining that a lime green pineapple was ridiculous, and Shawn had refused to let him make it the right color - until now. He could tell Gus was seriously tempted by the offer. "It won't be anything dangerous. There won't be any birds, mocking or otherwise involved."

Gus didn't look happy at Shawn's little joke, and Shawn wasn't entirely comfortable with it either, but he had been trying to get over this stupid hurdle in his mind that made him a bit freaked out when the topic of mockingbirds came up. After all, the bird wasn't to blame. They were just as much the victims as he had been. And, he hadn't told anyone this yet, he'd actually hidden away the book given to him by Mrs. Moore. Maybe, someday, he'd take it out and... well, look at it, at least. It was far too long and old to read cover to cover. Maybe he'd actually watch the movie instead of sleeping through it. He'd been forced to be a part of the book, and somehow, that had made his desire to overcome his fears and demons by confronting them even stronger, and he'd found he was actually kind of interested in finding out what the book was really about, not just Stevens' jacked up revenge-riddled interpretation that he'd felt compelled to share with Shawn and his family.

"Shawn—"

"Please, Gus?" Shawn pleaded. "I'm so  _bored_. All I've been doing is therapy and eating and watching reruns and looking over these files. I need to investigate something. Go to the scene. If we see Lassie and Jules, you can distract them while I run."

Gus raised his eyebrows. "Run?"

"Hobble. Gimp. Whatever. Just make sure it's a lengthy distraction. Maybe you should have an aneurism or contract Ebola or something."

"You're an idiot." He sighed. "Fine. But only for a few minutes.  _To get the greens_."

"Sure, buddy. To get the greens. Goodness knows my dad needs them – told me that himself, which was  _way_  too much information – so it shouldn't look too suspicious."

"Except there are about five grocery stores that are closer to your dad's than the one we're going to."

"He's a very picky old goat," Shawn shot back instantly. As much as he needled his dad, and as much as their relationship seemed to have gone back to the normal bickering and griping over the past two months, there was something more there now, a shared bond, an understanding, and they were closer than they had been in a long, long time, and they were both much happier because of it. "Only eats the Ollie's Grocery store-brand greens. Says they have more fiber."

Gus rolled his eyes but got off the couch, reached out his hand, and helped Shawn to his feet, his right leg bent slightly at the knee and resting lightly on the ground. Gus handed him his crutch and held the door open, and together they left the Psych office, Shawn piping on about how the next psycho that went after them should be obsessed with a nice and safe book, like  _Green Eggs and Ham_. That couldn't be too bad, right? It sure beat  _To Kill a Mockingjay_.

"Mocking _bird_ , Shawn, and you have no excuse for not knowing it now, especially since I made you watch  _The Hunger Games_  and showed you the difference." Shawn had insisted that the first step in his "Mockingbird Recovery Program" was to start with something like a mockingbird, but not one, so he'd allowed Gus to drag him to the Psych office for a  _Hunger Games_  movie night, since apparently woodpeckers and mockingbirds weren't all that closely related after all. Gus's response was irritable as he helped Shawn into the passenger's side of the Blueberry and walked around to get in the driver's seat.

Shawn grinned, feeling lighter than he had in days, thrilled to be doing something other than what he'd been doing for six weeks now – nothing. And going against the powers that be were a bonus. It wasn't just investigating this case or getting to spend time with Jules, or getting along with his dad or making steam come out of Lassie's ears, or driving Gus up the wall with his intentionally wrong references that had him in a good mood. He felt like things were finally going to start improving, and he was going to be able to look toward the future, to Psych and everything that mattered to him, instead of being trapped in the nightmare of the past few months.

The only hurdle really still in his way was Aaron Stevens' court date, which had been set for four months from now, and Shawn and Henry would be the key witnesses. He'd been assured again and again that the crazy scholar was undoubtedly going away for good as the evidence against him was overwhelming, and coupled with Shawn's and his dad's testimonies, there was no way he'd walk free ever again. Still, the thought of being back in a courtroom with his tormenter, despite the fact that Aaron would be the prisoner and it would be a real courtroom, terrified Shawn. The court date was a full four months away, though, and he was content for now to deal with his anxiety and trepidation in the way he did everything else - not thinking about it and making jokes. He knew that when it got closer to time that it would be harder to avoid thinking about it, but... he just didn't want to think about it right now. And so he didn't, even if he was running the risk of hurting himself even more in the long run with his avoidance.

"I know, I know," Shawn said as Gus started the ignition. "But you just get the most hilarious look on your face when I say it wrong. Your forehead turns into a grumpy black raison."

"I will drive you straight to your dad's, Shawn."

"Just kidding, dude. Mockingbirds are dope. You win."

"You're an idiot, Shawn."

But he got into the turning lane in the direction of the grocery store anyway.

 


End file.
